Suffer the Little Children
by valkyrie-alex
Summary: Wee!chester 'fic. There's Dean, Sammy, John, and a possessed...well, that'd be telling. Suffice it to say, this is going to be one lousy Christmas.
1. Chapter 1

Hello,

Yeah, so, it's not Christmas anymore...and I have fifty-eleven other things I should be doing right now. But see, I'm madly in love with this story '_The Bringer_' by Ultimate Raisin on this site. And in her latest chapter, Ultimate Raisin set loose a little plot bunny...a challenge to write a 'scene' she briefly described in the chapter.

And I should know better than to pet strange plot bunnies by now...but what can you do? So I took that little scene...and it kinda mutated into an actual freakin' story. And I don't know whether I want to smack Ultimate Raisin, or hug her, 'cause I've really been wanting to write in this fandom, but haven't really gotten any good plots in my head.

Any road, here I present a tag of sorts to chapter 14 of _The Bringer_. (which you should totally read, it's in the M section!) Please note, the rating is for disturbing content that will be happening in future chapters (I'm thinking this'll be about a four-parter).

Disclaimer: I am in no way associated with the rightful owners of Supernatural, or any publicly recognizable trademarks thereof. This is just for fun and no money is exchanging hands. Please don't sue, okay?

* * *

John Winchester was a patient man. He could sit for days on a stakeout, and never lose his laser-like focus. He could negotiate with his various munitions dealers for hours on end, until they gave him the price he wanted just to get him to go away. He had successfully mediated hundred of arguments over bedtimes, bath times, and whether or not Lion-O could kick Optimus Prime's metallic butt.

He had learned how to change a diaper one-handed while simultaneously making sure the neon yellow, processed cheese-food was reaching _just_ the right level of gooiness in a grilled cheese sandwich, and never batted an eye. He was a patient man.

But everyone had their breaking point, and he was going to _kill_ his older son when they finally stopped for the night.

"All I wan' for CrissMAS is my two fron' teefs! My two fron' teefs! My two fron' teefs! All I wan' for CrissMAS is my two fron' teefs, my two fron' teefs, my two fron' teefs!"

The strains of what could be called a song only in the loosest sense of the term (as the high-pitched voice carrying the words had crossed the line that separated singing from just rhythmically yelling about thirty miles back) had been their soundtrack for the past hour, and John's head had begun to throb in time with the tune within the first ten minutes. He looked longingly at the buttons that would turn on the radio, filling the car with something other than the not-so-dulcet tones of his baby boy.

"You couldn't have at least taught him the rest of the song?" he whispered out of the corner of his mouth. Beside him, Dean merely slouched guiltily, tugging the brim of his worn baseball cap lower over his eyes.

"I didn't think he'd like it _this _much," the boy murmured back.

"Daddy, is I singing good?"

John tightened his hands on the Impala's steering wheel and forced himself to smile brightly at his younger child in the rear-view mirror. "Am I," he corrected automatically, the smile easing into something less forced as the three year old giggled, covering his face with his small, chubby hands.

"_Am_ I, Daddy?" the little boy said finally, enunciating with unusual clarity. John chuckled to himself, shaking his head. No doubt his younger son would have that particular intricacy of the English language mastered before New Year's. Sammy loved words the way other kids loved candy…there had been no stopping the kid after he started talking in actual sentences.

This, John could already tell, was going to be a very mixed blessing. When picking up new Christmas carols from older brothers, for instance. Nonetheless, John managed to inject a note of enthusiasm into his voice when he replied.

"_Very_ good, Sammy. You're very good at that song. But, uh, how about we listen to the radio now, okay? Your voice must be getting tired."

In the passenger seat, Dean perked up a little, glancing hopefully over the seat at his brother. Sammy, however, merely grinned, shaking his head so forcefully his shaggy mop of brown hair flew in all directions.

"Not tired, Daddy. I can sing all day! All I wan' for CrissMAS is my two fron' teefs, my two fron' teefs, my two fron' teefs! All I wan' for CrissMAS is my two fron' teefs, my two fron' teefs, my two fron' teefs!"

With a muffled groan, Dean turned around again and resumed his slouched position in the seat. "I told you not to let him have that Coke with his Happy Meal," the seven-year-old muttered accusingly, nonetheless pitching his voice too low for his brother to hear. "He'll be up for hours, now."

Despite himself, John snorted, an amused smirk twitching his lips. "Sorry, dude, but this one's all on you," he shot back, just as quietly.

"All I wan' for CrissMAS is my two fron' teefs!"

* * *

It was sundown before the reached their destination…yet another rundown motel on the side of the highway just outside of San Jose, California. Mercifully, despite his older son's dire prediction, Sammy had actually nodded off somewhere in Nevada and slept all the way through to California. Even more mercifully, when he'd woken, the little boy had been far more interested in dinner than Christmas carols.

John was still popping aspirin like it was candy, though. He didn't remember Dean having quite that lung capacity when he was Sammy's age.

Sighing, John surveyed the little room that would likely be their home this Christmas. The remains of their Chinese takeout dinner were spread out over the small table in one corner of the room, their luggage piled onto one of the two sagging beds. A cracked and stained Formica counter ran along the wall beside the door, boasting a microwave oven that was probably only a little younger than the Impala and a dingy porcelain sink. With judicious use of Dean's best hopeful smile and Sammy's best puppy-eyes (and John thought he should probably feel sorry for the population at large when his small son learned how to turn those things on at will), he had managed to finagle a large picnic cooler out of the motel operator, which would hold a few perishables he planned to pick up tomorrow from the local grocery.

All in all, not the worst place they had ever stayed.

Still, it was a far, far cry from anything he'd ever imagined sharing with his family on Christmas.

Then again, _most_ of his life these days consisted of things he'd never imagined sharing with his family. Things he didn't _want_ to share with his boys. They deserved better than this.

But John knew from bitter experience that such thoughts would get him nowhere. Their life was what it was. There was no turning back for him, not until he'd found whatever had taken his Mary from him, from their children. And damned if he was going to leave his boys behind.

However, John couldn't help questioning his decision to take this particular job. Part of him had wanted to refuse when Bobby had called him about it…they had an open invitation to stay at Pastor Jim's for the holidays, and it was all but guaranteed that this hunt would keep them in California until after Christmas. Part of him had ached to give his sons something close to what they had lost when Mary died…to see Sammy, finally old enough to really understand what all the fuss was about, crawling around under Jim's huge Christmas tree, to see some of the perpetual guardedness lift from Dean's face in the presence of lights and toys and cookies. All the things that it just wasn't practical to try to have on the road. In the end, though, he couldn't do it. He couldn't turn away from this job.

Sighing softly, and pressing one hand to his temple, John again picked up the newspaper article that had brought them here.

"**City in Panic as Body of Seventh Missing Child Discovered**," the headline proclaimed grimly. John had memorized the article days ago, but scanned it again anyway, moving to cradle his chin in one hand.

It was every parent's worst nightmare. Since the beginning of December, ten children, all under the age of eight, had disappeared from the same business district in San Jose. All had been out on a Christmas shopping trip with a parent or other guardian. All had simply vanished without a trace…the attendant adults had all claimed that the child had disappeared when their backs were turned for not more than a few seconds.

So far, seven had been found—dead. Their throats slit, their bodies mutilated in some way, though the police were keeping those details strictly under wraps. Some of Bobby's contacts were working on laying hands on the crime scene photos, but as it turned out, John really didn't think he'd need them.

To the casual observer, there was nothing about the deaths that might have raised a hunter's instincts. Just another psycho stalking the most innocent and helpless of victims.

John Winchester was not the casual observer.

And while Bobby might have made the connection between the ten missing children this year, and the six that had died in similar fashion in the area in the sixties, John had found the eight that had been killed in 1942.

And the ten that had died in 1915.

And the twelve that had died in 1878.

And the seven that had died in 1840.

Going back all the way to 1810…no cyclical pattern that John could discern in the years that it happened, but there was surely enough to point to a supernatural occurrence otherwise. All the victims had vanished between December first and December twenty fourth, with the final victim always left on Christmas Eve. All the children had vanished without a trace, without even a single clue left behind. Seemingly random children, from all walks of life…but all had disappeared in the same area as the current group of victims, and all had been left to be discovered by searchers…their throats slit, their eyes and tongues cut out.

Newspapers from the 1800's were not nearly as secretive about sensational details as their modern counterparts, it turned out.

John rubbed the back of his neck wearily, shoving the article and various bits of information and evidence he'd gathered back into the folder. He wasn't sure just what he was dealing with, yet, but he was determined that the latest body would be the last. He couldn't turn away from this job…but he couldn't help but wonder if it had really been the best thing to drag his sons along on this one. Danger aside, he knew that he'd be spending long hours on this one…hours away from Dean and Sammy. He'd been leaving Sammy in Dean's care more and more lately, had even gotten to the point where he felt comfortable leaving the boys alone for a couple of days at a time…but this was different. His sons shouldn't have to spend Christmas holed up in a motel room waiting for the 'secret knock.'

Pastor Jim had offered to keep the boys for him while he went to San Jose, and though the older man hadn't said a word about it, John knew that there was an implicit offer to make sure some of the church's Christmas charity fell on his children. John couldn't make himself do that, though, anymore than he could make himself turn down the hunt, even though a part of him had whispered chidingly that his children deserved some taste of normalcy, damn it.

The sounds of splashing water and Sammy's delighted squeals drifted out of the bathroom, startling John from his thoughts.

"No tickle! No tickle, Dean!" Sammy called out between gales of helpless laughter.

"Too late, kiddo! Shoulda let me wash behind your ears."

"Daddy! Daddy, save me!" There was another loud splash and John chuckled softly.

"What was that Sammy? I can't hear you over the splashing!"

"Help! Help, Daddy! Dean, no tickle! No tickle!" Sammy's voice raised another decibel or two, his laughter mixing with his brother's as the two played out one of their favorite games.

"What was that? You want Dean to tickle you? Well okay, buddy, but just let me know if you want him to stop."

"Daddyyyyyyy!"

"Try not to drown your brother, Dean," John cautioned with mock-severity. "And don't get all the towels wet," he added, more seriously.

"Yes, sir!" Dean's voice floated out of the bathroom, and the splashing eased off some. Sammy's giggles died down into a low murmur as the little one no doubt careened off on some tangent or another.

A few moments later, the boys emerged, clad in their pajamas. Sammy immediately dashed over to the bed John was sitting on, leaping up without preamble and scrambling onto John's lap. Dean moved at a more sedate pace, stopping by the bed he and his brother would share and carefully moving their bags onto the floor by the door. John's weapons bag, though, was left on the floor in between the two beds, zipped up against small, curious fingers, but within easy reach. John nodded approvingly.

"Daddy?" Sammy squirmed slightly on his lap, twisting around so that the boy was looking up at him. Sammy's dark hair was still damp from his bath, drying into wavy little curls on his forehead and neck. Absently, John noted that he would need a haircut soon. The little-boy smell of Johnson's baby shampoo (one of the few name-brand indulgences John allowed, as it was the only soap Dean would allow within a foot of Sammy's eyes) and minty toothpaste wafted up to John's face and he couldn't help tightening his arms around his younger son.

"Yeah, Sammy?"

"Are we gonna get a Christmas tree?" the boy asked quietly. "I sawed one in th'office when you were gettin' the room. It was really pretty." Sammy's voice was hopeful, his small fists bunching and un-bunching in the fabric of John's shirt. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw his other son stiffen slightly where he was turning down the other bed.

"Yeah, it was really pretty," John agreed carefully, still watching Dean. The older boy appeared to be holding his breath, and John could almost hear the wheels turning in the sandy-blond head. Sammy was silent in his lap, still staring up at him with wide, hopeful eyes. A Christmas tree…such an innocuous, normal _thing_…something his boys shouldn't even have to ask for.

John knew he should be firm. The sooner they understood that some things just didn't fit into their lifestyle, the better. Dean was starting to come to that conclusion, and the older boy seemed okay with it, most of the time. Sammy, though, Sammy was a different story…and John knew he should probably start disabusing his younger son of certain notions as soon as possible. He tried to make holidays special for the boys…but there were certain things that just didn't work.

But, the owner of the house that last poltergeist had been haunting _had_ been rather grateful. For once, they had some money on hand.

They were stocked up pretty well on ammunition and supplies. There had been no major maintenance emergencies with the Impala. He'd already bought Dean some much-needed clothes for the coming year before they headed out to the poltergeist job, and Sammy had been wearing Dean's hand-me-downs since he'd gotten out of diapers. The practical hunter in him knew he should save as much extra cash as he could, that he'd already splurged a little on the two packages carefully hidden in the Impala's trunk—a new pair of boots for Dean and a stack of coloring books and crayons for Sammy. Their resources shouldn't be wasted on frivolous things.

Sammy's eyes were starting to darken with resignation, his lower lip trembling a little, even as he tried to hide it. Beside the other bed, John thought he heard his other son sigh a little, a soft, regretful sound.

Screw it.

"Yeah, Sammy, we can get a tree." Almost before he'd finished the sentence, his small son's whole face had lit up.

"Really?" And suddenly, John's air supply was being cut off as Sammy latched onto his neck in a stranglehold of a hug. Glancing over at Dean over top of Sammy's head, John's heart swelled a little at the excited grin that had burst over his other son's face, the true happiness gleaming in his eyes—so like Mary's.

"Just a little one, though, okay?" Quickly, John tried to regain control of the situation. "And you know there's nowhere we can put ornaments in the car, so—"

"It's okay, Daddy! Dean told me they made popcorn strings an' paper or…or-ma-nents at his old school…he can show me and we'll make 'em! Thank you, Daddy!"

John smiled a little, winking at Dean, who merely let his grin widen a little. "That sounds great, Sammy. We'll get everything when we go grocery shopping tomorrow."

Sammy shrieked in delight, reaching up to plant a smacking kiss on John's stubbled cheek before squirming down out of his lap and over to the other bed. Still grinning, Dean lifted the little boy onto the mattress, hustling him over onto the side closest to the wall before climbing in himself and pulling the blankets up around them.

John cast one final look at the folder before picking it up and tossing it onto the table by the takeout boxes. Cracking his neck from side to side, he reached over and turned the bedside lamp off, leaving the room lit only by the parking lot lights pouring in through the small window over the sink. He turned back to his boys, to find Sammy already curled closely against his brother's side, eyelids drooping as his thumb slowly found its way to his mouth.

"What was that about not letting the kid have a Coke?" John couldn't resist teasing his older child, to which Dean simply rolled his eyes. John made his way softly over to the side of their bed, reaching down to run his hand gently over Sammy's head before laying it soundly on Dean's shoulder. "I'm gonna grab a shower…you want the TV on, dude?"

Dean shook his head. "Nah, it's okay…we turned it on while you were getting the food…reception sucks here."

"I'll see if I can fix it in the morning." John pulled his outer shirt off, laying it on the corner of his bed, before turning to again head towards the small bathroom.

"Okay," Dean muttered sleepily. "Hey Dad?"

John paused, glancing over his shoulder at his son. "Yeah?"

Dean's eyes darted to his brother, assuring himself that Sammy was well and truly asleep. "The tree and stuff…are you sure we can afford it?" he whispered softly. "'Cause I could talk Sammy out of it…or something."

There were moments when John hated the thing that had stolen Mary from them with such ferocity it took his breath away.

"You—" he cleared his throat roughly, something clenching inside of him. "You let me worry about what we can afford, okay? You worry about showing Sammy how to string popcorn."

Dean's brow furrowed for a moment, but finally he seemed to accept John's answer. There was a flash of white teeth in the dimness and then Dean settled further underneath the blankets. John stood there a few seconds more, just watching his boys, before turning away to head for the bathroom.

All right, maybe they would have had a bigger tree with Pastor Jim…maybe there would have been more presents, and John was certainly under no illusions that takeout pizza could beat the full turkey dinner one of the church-goers would surely have provided. In some ways, maybe Dean and Sammy would have been safer if John had left them with his friend.

But then they wouldn't have been with _him_.

And being together was a damn sight more important than trees and presents and turkey.

* * *

There was light, but it was dim and diffused, sputtering down from a single industrial bulb. The thing flickered periodically, by turns throwing the small space into pitch-darkness, or tossing horrible, mangled shadows up on the rough brick walls. There was a constant drip of water from somewhere in the distance, as well as other, less easily identifiable sounds…the chitterings of rodents, the dim hum of traffic.

There was crying, too, of course.

Soft, hiccupping sobs echoed off the walls as three small bodies huddled together on the floor of their filthy prison. There had been more, earlier…but the others had disappeared, one by one, dragged out of the tiny room by their nightmare, never to be seen again.

Those left behind heard them, though. Heard the rough voice of the thing that had taken them from their mommies and daddies, and the chilling screams of the others that had been in here with them…screams that always abruptly choked off into a silence that was somehow worse than the screaming. There were only three of them left, now, shivering together on the floor.

"I-I wanna go home," one of the captives finally choked out around the tears that hadn't stopped flowing in what seemed like days. There was no answer to the child's shaky declaration…there was none the others could give. They all wanted to go home. They had all screamed for their parents 'til they were hoarse, prayed to whatever gods and saints they had been raised to believe looked after good little children until the words blurred in their frightened minds, and no help came.

They were starting to think no help was _going_ to come.

"I wanna go _home_," the child repeated again, the last word catching on a fresh sob. Tiny, dirty hands covered an even dirtier face, and the tears came anew, shaking the small body.

Above them the light bulb flickered maddeningly, before winking out.

It did not come back on.

TBC...

* * *

Author's notes: Ugh, I can't believe I did author's notes...but at least I put them at the end. Yes, I'm actually basing Wee!Sam's bits off of a particularly precocious three-year-old I had the pleasure of babysitting for several years (yeah, well, not that she stayed three the whole time I was babysitting). It is possible for three year olds to be that coherent...and I figured Sam was a smarty-pants from the get-go.

Also, I'm a little...iffy...on John's character. I know he's nowhere near as gruff and austere as he was presented in the series, but I'm kind of going on the theory that the whole "raised like warriors" thing was a progression...John DID seem softer in "Something Wicked" yes? If anyone has any suggestions, I'd be happy to hear them...I welcome constructive criticism with open arms.


	2. Chapter 2

Heyas,

Many thanks to those who reviewed...I'm glad you're liking it!

Ultimate-Raisin...since this site is still being naughty with the email alerts...plunder away as far as images go, babe! I hope this goes in a direction you like :D

Disclaimer: I am in no way associated with the rightful owners of Supernatural...though I would happily bear Eric Kripke's children, if he wants. Please don't sue!

* * *

There were only three of them left.

There had been seven when she had first been brought down here, thrown into what felt like a real-life nightmare...only one she couldn't wake up from. Seven other children had been shivering and cowering in the little room, huddling close together both for warmth, and because it helped, just a little, to hold another hand during the night. She had learned all their names, heard them tell the same story of how they had been taken from the people that loved them and even though she, too, was scared out of her mind, some small part of her had sensed that things were going to get much, much worse. She'd been right.

There were only three of them left.

At seven, she was the oldest. There had been another little boy her age...Michael...and together they had kind of tried to take care of the littler ones. They had been the ones that everybody clung to at night--or at least, what they thought was night--and she and Michael had been the ones to hug the little ones tightly when they got hungry and started crying. She and Michael were the ones who were big and brave enough to take the little ones by the hand and lead them out of the circle of light the single light bulb to a corner of the room where they could go potty. It had been Michael who had found the rusty sink on one wall that they had been drinking out of for the past several days. Between the two of them, they had started to hope that they would be able to take care of the little ones long enough for someone to find them.

But Michael was gone now.

So were most of the others.

It was just her, now. Her and two other children: a little kindergartner named Rachel and a four-year-old boy named Daniel.

And she was slowly beginning to understand that no one was coming for them.

She was so hungry it hurt, her stomach not even rumbling anymore...just empty, empty, empty. Rachel and Daniel had been down here longer than she had, and she knew they had to be even hungrier. One of the other little girls had had a couple packets of peanut butter crackers stuffed in her pockets when she had been taken, and Michael had handed those out only a little while before he'd been taken away for good. She tried to think how long ago that had been...two days? Three? She wasn't sure. She didn't even know how long she had been down here.

She had thought things couldn't possibly get worse, but now they didn't even have the light that the bulb had given off. The thing had fizzled out hours ago, and hadn't come back on. By now, she and the little ones could walk to the sink and the 'potty corner' blindfolded...but the place was so much scarier without that circle of light to go back to. It was somehow worse not to be able to see the rough, crumbling brick walls, covered with thick growths of mold or mildew, or the strange piles of dirty, rotting junk in the corners. If she had thought the place was frightening when the lightbulb had cast strange shadows, it was even more scary in the near pitch-dark...it made it easier to imagine all sorts of nasty things crawling out of the walls.

She wanted to go home.

She wanted her mommy to kiss her head and tell her everything was okay. She wanted her daddy to sweep her up in his big, strong arms and tell her that he would never let anything happen to her again.

She wouldn't even mind her bratty big sister pulling on her pigtails and calling her 'Squirt.'

She would never, ever complain about her sister again. She would keep her room clean, and always do what her mommy told her, and she would never, ever do anything bad if only God would just let her, Rachel, and Daniel go home. She would give all her presents to the church rummage and she'd never ask for anything ever again, if only she could go home and see her family.

"Maria?" At her side, Rachel stirred a little, and Maria felt the other little girl raise her head. Even with their eyes adjusted to the dark, they could barely see each other. The two little ones hadn't let go of Maria since the light had gone out.

"Yeah, Rach?" She tried very hard to make her voice sound calm and strong, like Michael had. They had both agreed...they were the oldest, so it was up to them to try and help the little ones be brave.

It had been so much easier to be brave when Michael was still here.

"They didn't forget us, did they? Our families, I mean."

"No!" It came out louder than she had meant it to, and Daniel, who had managed to fall asleep a little while ago, jerked slightly before stilling again. "No," she said again, more quietly. "They didn't forget. They're still looking for us."

Rachel whimpered a little. "How do you know? Why haven't they found us?"

"I--I don't know _why_ they haven't found us. But I know they're looking. My parents, and your parents, and Daniel's grandma...they're still looking."

"What if they don't find us before--"

"Stop." Maria tightened her arm around the other girl's thin shoulders. "Don't talk like that. We can't think like that, okay?"

"But I'm scared." Rachel's voice was small and choked, trembling with each word. Maria felt her own eyes sting with fresh tears and her stomach fluttered painfully in a way that had nothing to do with hunger. Because she meant what she had said...she knew their families were still looking.

She just didn't think they would be able to find them before...before they got taken out of this little room, too.

But no way was she going to tell the other two, that. Instead, she moved her arm so that she could take one of Rachel's cold hands in her own. "Let's say another prayer, together, okay? You remember the one I taught you in Spanish? The one my Abuela taught me when I was your age?"

"The one to Jesus's mommy...the one that has your name in it?"

"Uh-huh. The one to the Virgin Mary...we'll ask her to ask her Son to watch out for us, okay? _Dios te salve, Maria--_"

"_Dios te sa...salve, Maria_," Rachel repeated dutifully.

"_Llena eres de gracia, el Senor es contigo_."

"_Llena er-eres de gracia, el Senor es con--contigo._"

Maria closed her eyes and she and Rachel prayed, trying to put as much strength and faith in her words as she could. Her abuela had always taught her that no matter what, if you prayed with all your heart, God would listen. God _had_ to listen. She had to believe that He would hear and send someone to help them. It was getting harder and harder to think like that, though.

"_Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros, pecadores, ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte. Amen_," they finished together, and Maria squeezed the little hand in hers tightly.

"_Please, God, send someone to help us. Send someone to find us._"

* * *

Watching his boys run around the tree lot, Sammy clutching Dean's hand and both sporting grins from ear to ear, was one of the most satisfying things John had seen in far too long.

It was also one of the hardest.

It was too, too easy to picture another time, another tree lot...too easy to see Dean at Sammy's age, racing around with wide eyes and a giant smile. Too easy to remember the feel of Mary's hand in his, the weight of her head on his shoulder as they had watched their first son. Too easy to remember placing his hand over his wife's swollen belly to feel the little kicks and flutters of their other child.

"_Just think, John...this time next year, we'll have two. Two perfect, little angels._"

It was too easy to remember the house he had shared with the love of his life, bedecked with every Christmas decoration known to man, the tree nearly touching the ceiling of their livingroom, covered with lights and sparkling ornaments. Mary had loved Christmas time...he'd been pressed into service putting lights on their house the day after Thanksgiving, and it had been hard to convince her to wait at least until mid-December to get a tree. How she would have loved watching their children like this.

He swallowed roughly as he saw Dean's eyes linger over the large, bushy trees that Mary had always insisted on from the first holiday they had spent together. Sammy was just happy to get a tree...he didn't care what size it was, and most of the plants on this lot were bigger than him, anyway. Dean, though, Dean knew what they were missing out on. His older son put on a brave face, though, happily letting his little brother drag him to the back corner of the lot, where what John had privately dubbed 'The Bachelor Trees' were on display. They were tiny, scraggly things...most of them would hardly even qualify as a bush, let alone a Christmas tree.

"_God, Mary, I'm sorry...I'm trying, honey, I really am._"

Sammy's dark eyes lit up upon seeing the sorry things, though, and when the boy glanced back at John, John saw nothing but sheer joy in his baby's face. Some of the tightness eased in his chest.

"What one do you like, Daddy?" Sammy asked, letting go of Dean's hand and holding his arms up. Without needing to be asked, Dean leaned down and scooped his little brother up, balancing him with practiced ease against his hip. Even as small an armful as he was, Sammy was very nearly too big for Dean to lift anymore, but neither boy seemed to have noticed that, yet. Sammy's arms wound around his older brother's neck, as he craned his head back to look at John.

Coming to a stop beside Dean, John pretended to examine the trees closely, tapping his chin with one finger. "Hmmmm...well, this is a very big decision. What do you think, Dean?"

The older boy smirked at him, a bit, before turning back to the trees and affecting almost the exact same expression of thoughtfulness. "I dunno, Dad. They all look pretty good. What do you think, Sammy?"

Sammy glanced from his brother to his father before squirming a little in Dean's arms so that he could lift one small hand to his face, tapping his chin just like John was. John shared a secret, amused smile with his older boy. After a few moments, Sammy pointed to a specimen a few feet away. "I like that one!" the boy proclaimed proudly.

Following the line of the child's hand, John couldn't help raising an eyebrow. The tree his son was pointing at looked like it had gone ten rounds with a lawnmower...and obviously come out the loser of the fight. It was only a little taller than Sammy, the needles gone a pale, dry green, and several branches were missing in the middle. Dean, though, was already nodding. "Good choice, kiddo," Dean said, jostling Sammy into a more secure position on his hip.

"You boys sure you want _that_ one?" John asked, disbelief ringing in his words. He glanced down at his sons. Dean shrugged one shoulder.

"It looks like the Snoopy Christmas tree," his older child said, as if that explained everything.

"Yeah! I love Snoopy Christmas," Sammy piped up. "Asides--"

"_Be_sides," John jumped in, squatting down a bit so that he was at eye-level with his younger son.

"_Be-_sides," Sammy began again. "What if no one picks it? Then it'll be lonely!" A thought seemed to occur to the little boy, and he turned serious eyes on his father. "But if you don't like it, we can pick another one, Daddy."

John sighed heavily, before reaching up to chuck Sammy under the chin. "You two are somethin' else, you know that? All right, if that's the one you want, that's the one we'll get."

Both boys nodded enthusiastically, and John stood up to signal one of the many lot attendants in Santa hats wandering around. He watched as the two boys bent their heads together, seriously discussing how they were going to decorate the little tree, and where they would put it. John shook his head. Worrying about whether or not a Christmas tree would be lonely.

If Mary still peered out at him through their older child's eyes, then it was through their baby that she still spoke.

* * *

After they left the lot, the tree--such as it was--secured to the roof of the Impala (though only after John had wrapped it in one of the tarps he kept in the car to protect the seats from the aftermath of particularly messy hunts), John found himself wending the car through the streets of San Jose. They still had to get enough groceries to see them through the next several days, but John had to admit that he was also itching to get on the hunt. Admittedly, there was little he could do until the next day. A couple of his better fake credentials had gotten him appointments with both the detectives handling the investigation, and two families of children who were still missing. He still wasn't sure what it was, exactly, he was dealing with, and he was hoping that one or more of the interviews would give him some clue. He was leaning towards a shapeshifter of some sort...but he didn't know of any skinwalker or werecreature that lived as long as this thing apparently had. It was possible he was dealing with a particularly powerful angry spirit...but he just couldn't be sure.

Until then though...

Smoothly, John pulled the Impala over, parking it by the curb of a busy sidewalk. He leaned forward, crossing his arms and resting them on the steering wheel.

Saratoga Avenue.

One of the main drags in San Jose's busines district, a long street of stores, boutiques, and shopping malls. All of the children had disappeared within the same few blocks along this street...four of them from the Westgate Mall, just up the block from them.

"Dad?" John glanced over to find Dean watching him with a curious expression.

If he could find some evidence of whatever it was he was facing, some hint of where it was going or how it was taking these children, he'd be able to narrow his search area down after he talked to the police and the families. It would only be a little light re-conn...just sweep the lower level of the mall with the EMF meter...and he would certainly be less noticeable amongst the throng of holiday shoppers with the boys in tow.

A vague whisper of foreboding stole through him, but John brushed it aside. He certainly wouldn't be easy pickings, like those other families...he knew how to watch out, how to watch his boys. The EMF meter would alert them to any paranormal energy before it had the chance to sneak up on them. Surely, it wouldn't be a problem to take the boys on a quick sweep of the mall. They could grab lunch in the food court...maybe he could even let Dean and Sammy see the Santa Claus. He'd have to leave them alone in the motel most of the time while they were in San Jose...surely it couldn't hurt to take them with him for a little re-conn.

"How'd you like to help me out a little with this job, dude?" he asked seriously.

Dean's whole face briefly lit up in excitement before a cool, serious mask slid over his features. John spared a moment to wonder when his young son had gotten so good at that. "Sure, Dad, what do you want me to do?"

"I help too, Daddy?" Sammy chirped from the back seat. John glanced over his shoulder to see his younger son leaning eagerly forward in his car booster-seat.

"You boys can both help me. I've got to hunt something down that's taking people from this street...and I need to see if there's any activity in the mall. It'd be easier to look around if you were with me." Sammy's brow furrowed in confusion, but Dean was nodding sagely.

"Nobody'll look twice at a guy shopping with his kids," Dean reasoned. John's mouth twitched, pride swelling in his heart.

"Exactly. But this thing might be dangerous, so you two need to _promise_ me that you won't leave my sight. Dean, you don't let go of your brother's hand. All right?" He stared seriously at his older son, nodding shortly when Dean squared his shoulders, sitting up a little straighter in the passenger seat.

"Yes, sir, I promise."

"Cross my heart, Daddy!" Sammy added.

"All right, then." At a clear space in the street traffic, John exited the car, walking around to the back passenger side and opening the door. Sammy had already half-unbuckled himself from his car seat, and John shook his head at his younger child's dexterity. He finished the job and pulled the child out to stand next to his brother on the curb, then leaned back into the car and grabbed Sammy's child-sized ThunderCats backpack. John had counted Sammy as potty-trained for a few months, now, but he'd learned the hard way that it still wasn't a good idea to go anywhere without a fresh change of clothes and an extra pair of training pants, just in case. Besides, the backpack was big enough to store a couple of extra clips for his gun along with Sammy's sippy cup of apple juice.

Handing the backpack to Dean, he then made his way around to the back of the car, popping the trunk. Quickly and discreetly, he tucked a handgun loaded with silver bullets into the inner pocket of his jacket, then grabbed his EMF meter and stuffed it in a pocket. Next, he pulled out a plastic bottle filled with holy water and a cannister of salt. Those, he passed to Dean, pausing to grip his son's shoulder.

"Now look, I meant it when I said you two don't leave my sight. But if we _do_ get separated, what do you do?"

"Take Sammy to the nearest bathroom and lay a salt line in one of the stalls. If we can, lock the main door, but if we can't, just stay in the stall, no matter what and stand on the toilet or act like Sammy's going if anyone comes in. Don't come out for anyone but you," Dean recited dutifully, without missing a beat.

"And only if I cross the salt line."

Dean's eyes widened slightly. "Shapeshifter?" he asked.

"I don't know, yet. But there's not much--"

"That salt won't stop," Dean finished automatically. "Got it, Dad." He slipped the holy water into the pocket of his own jacket.

"Dean, I wanna help carry," Sammy said suddenly, tugging on the hem of his brother's jacket. Both Dean and John looked doubtfully at the tiny pockets of Sammy's winter jacket and jeans for a moment, before Dean suddenly brightened.

"Here ya go, Sammy...you can carry the salt for me, okay?" Dean said, pushing the salt cannister into the backpack and helping his brother shrug into the straps. John grinned and ruffled Dean's hair affectionately.

"Okay, you two, let's get going," he said, swinging Sammy up onto his hip and grabbing one of Dean's hands.

Despite his confidence in his ability to protect his children, John moved them as quickly through the mall as he could, discreetly scanning the place for EMF. Dean was true to his word, sticking closely by John's side and never once letting go of his brother's hand. John kept one eye on his boys, the other on the meter, feeling something that was both relief and frustration when the there was nary a blip to indicate the presence of spirits, angry or otherwise. While he knew that spirits were not always detectable in the daylight, none of the children had been kidnapped after dark.

John wasn't sure he liked the implications of that.

They had made two passes through the lower levels of the mall, and John saw little reason to drag the boys around further. The four children that had gone missing from the Westgate Mall had all vanished from the first floor, as their parents and guardians were leaving the mall. Reluctantly deciding that he wasn't going to find anything of use at the moment, John stowed the meter in his pocket.

"Nothing?" Dean asked as John pulled them to a halt and sat down on one of the many benches scattered throughout the place. Dean sank down beside him and Sammy immediately climbed up to sit on John's knee.

"Nada," John confirmed, allowing his frustration to show in his voice. Dean pursed his lips a moment.

"Don't worry, Dad...you'll figure it out," he said, his words utterly confident. At his brother's words, Sammy nodded solemnly.

"There's _nothin'_ that you can't catch, Daddy," the small boy added, and John silently hoped that he would always be worthy of such trust from his children.

"Guess I'll just have to get some more intel tomorrow. For now...what do you boys say to lunch? Aaaannndddd," he dragged out the word, grabbing Sammy around the waist and slowly turning the boy on his knee to face the direction they had just come from. "I do believe we passed Santa's workshop a little ways back. Can't miss a visit with the big man this close to Christmas."

"Daddy," Sammy giggled, a note of chiding entering his high voice. "That's not the _real_ Santa," he said, as if it should have been the most obvious thing in the world.

Taken aback, John merely blinked at his younger child, and then glanced over at Dean, who merely shrugged.

"What makes you think that, kiddo?" John asked slowly. Sammy placed a chubby hand on each of John's cheeks.

"'Cause! I sawed another guy in a Santa suit outside the mall when we came in. He was shakin' a bell an' people were droppin' stuff in a big red pot beside him. An' I sawed _another_ Santa outside the toy store..._an'_ there's a Santa in the workshop? _Be_sides...everyone knows Santa's workshop is in the North Pole. Why would he be in Cal-i-forn-ya?"

John suddenly felt very, very sorry for Sammy's future teachers. The kid was gonna be a pistol when he started going to school.

"Well...wow, kiddo..." He groped for an explanation that would satisfy his younger child. Surprisingly, Dean jumped in before he could think of what to say.

"Well of _course_ Santa's workshop is in the North Pole. These guys are Santa's helpers," the other boy said matter-of-factly. Sammy whipped his head around to regard his brother with wide eyes. Dean grinned his patented "I'm-the-big-brother-so-of-course-I'm-right" grin. "Think about it...how else could he find out what every kid wants for Christmas? Not all of them write letters. He sends these guys out, and they report back to him. If you don't tell one of 'em what you want, you might not get anything on Christmas."

Instead of the horrified reaction John was expecting, Dean's prediction merely caused Sammy's puzzled frown to deepen.

"But how will Santa know where to go? We're at a motel." This time, it was John thinking on his feet.

"I left a note for Santa with Pastor Jim, telling him where you'd be." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dean's lips twitch as his older son quickly suppressed a giggle. Sammy, though, wasn't done yet.

"But how will he get in? We don't gots a chi...chim-ery."

"We don't _have_," John and Dean chorused together. Sammy rolled his eyes, bulling forward.

"_Have_ a chim-ery. And what about the salt? Daddy, you said salt keeps things from coming in the room!"

"Sammy, the guy can make toys for all the kids on Earth and deliver them in one night...you think a little thing like no chimney's gonna stop him?" Dean countered. Sammy narrowed his eyes slightly and planted his small fists on his hips.

"What about the salt?" he pressed hotly. "You _always_ put salt lines down, Daddy."

"Well...salt lines only keep bad things out. Yes, we _always_ put them down, and you know to never, ever mess them up...but the salt won't stop Santa, because Santa isn't bad," John explained patiently, silently wondering just where his child had gotten such a mulish streak from. He suspected it was himself.

"What about all his helpers? Are they good, too?"

"Of course they are," John replied. "Santa wouldn't hire bad people to help him." He and Dean paused, waiting to see what else the little boy might come up with. Sammy, though, finally seemed satisfied.

"Oohhhhh," Sammy breathed, nodding his head. Dean smirked as John winked at him over top of Sammy's head.

"Right," John agreed quickly. "So what do you say? Wanna go see Santa after we eat?"

Sammy thought about it very seriously for a moment. "You go with me, Dean?" he asked after a few seconds. Dean smacked his brother lightly on the arm.

"'Course I'm going with you. I'll even go first, and check him out."

"Well, there ya' go. Sounds like a plan. Now...who wants pizza?"

* * *

They found a quiet table on the edge of the food court, well away from the crowd of shoppers. While the boys messily devoured slices of pepperoni pizza and slurped their way through a shared can of soda, John contented himself with flipping through the file of information he had amassed on this case...particularly the articles from the 1800's. If it was a spirit he was dealing with, then there had to be some significance to the places where the children had disappeared. The articles, though, gave few details on the locale of the disappearances. John had no idea what had stood on Saratoga Avenue when the other victims had disappeared. He mentally groaned at the thought of combing through old city files and maps...he was fairly good at the research aspect of the hunt, but it wasn't his strongest skill.

And that was all a rather big _if_ on the spirit theory.

Truth be told, there were a lot of things that just weren't adding up for John on this case. It was too random.

Besides the way in which they had been killed, and the month and manner they had disappeared in, there was nothing that connected any of the victims. From any era. The only pattern to be had was in the way things _ended_...John couldn't find where everything _began_. Combined with the utter lack of any activity on the EMF meter, it was starting to unnerve him. It had been two days since the latest body had been found. The longest period between killings seemed to be about four days. John was beginning to think he wouldn't be able to find this thing in time to prevent another death.

He glanced up from the file to find Dean efficiently wiping tomato sauce from Sammy's face and hands, their plates and empty soda can stacked neatly in front of them. "All done?" he asked.

"All done!" Sammy confirmed brightly, holding his hands up for John to inspect.

"So, you ready to go see Santa?" John had to chuckle a bit at Sammy's enthusiastic nod, his earlier hesitance seemingly forgotten in the face of Dean's confidence in the whole process. "You wanna go toss the trash, dude?" he asked his older son. Obediently, Dean gathered up the paper plates, napkins, and soda can, carrying them to the trash receptacle a few feet from the table. John turned to watch the boy's progress, reluctant to let his guard down totally in the place where four of the children had disappeared.

He only turned his back for a few seconds.

"All right, Sammy, let's get a move--"

The chair that had held his small son only moments ago was empty.

"Sammy?" Frantically, his eyes darted around the immediate area, something icy cold growing in the pit of his stomach. Nothing...no tangled mop of dark hair, no impish grin at having fooled his Daddy...the child was nowhere to be seen.

"Sammy?!" John stood up so quickly, he knocked the chair over, ignoring the sound of it crashing to the floor. No...no, no, no, this was not happening. The meter was still switched on in his pocket...it would have alerted him to the presence of anything paranormal. It _would _have.

"**_Sammy!_**"

TBC...

For the curious, and the non-Catholic amongst the readers...Maria's prayer in the first part was the Hail Mary:

_Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee_

_Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus_

_Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners_

_Now and at the hour of our death, amen_


	3. Chapter 3

Heyas,

All right, seriously...is anyone else getting alerts from this website? I got, like, two yesterday, and nothing before or since. It's been almost two weeks now since I got any of my review, author, and story alerts. What on Earth is going on with this site?

That said, thank you to those of you who are reviewing. Hmmm, good catch on the contents of Sammy's backpack. That may come into play, that may not. Let's just say I like to keep my options open (wink).

And also, on a note to Ultimate-Raisin, 'cause I have no idea if my PM went through or not...would it be all right with you if I wove some of your Bringer mythology into this?

'Cause, yeah, this plot bunny grew fangs...no way this is gonna be a four parter. ;)

Disclaimer: I am in no way associated with the rightful owners of Supernatural. Eric Kripke is a god and I'm just playing in his sandbox. I promise to return all the toys in mint condition. Honest.

Okay, there may be a little bruising.

And some blood.

An emergency room visit, tops.

Please don't sue me.

* * *

"Samuel Carter. Sammy. He's, he's three years old...four in May. About 37 inches tall...thirty, maybe thirty-five pounds. Brown hair, brown eyes," John recited dully, for what felt like the hundredth time, though he knew it was only the second or third.

"And what is your son wearing, Mr. Carter?"

"Jeans and, uh, a gray sweatshirt, with a jacket over top."

"What color was the jacket?"

"It's red with blue pockets...it's got snap-buttons, not a zipper," Dean's soft voice interrupted, and John's gaze snapped to his other son, sitting beside him. One of the officers had offered to take Dean on a tour of the police station, and get him a soda and some candy while John spoke to the detectives.

Both John and Dean had flatly refused.

"And he had Spiderman sneakers with Velcro straps and a blue ThunderCats backpack," Dean finished quickly, not looking up from where he was steadily staring at the scarred Formica tabletop. Silently, John reached over and gripped his son's shoulder for a moment, nodding his confirmation at the young female officer taking his report.

John felt as though he was going to fly apart at the seams.

He could literally _feel_ every, single second ticking by, slipping through his fingers, carrying his baby farther and farther away from them. Sammy was gone. Sammy had been taken by the thing John was hunting. It didn't matter what anyone else tried to suggest, John knew it was the only explanation. The creature that murdered small, helpless children, cut their throats, mutilated their bodies...it had his son. His little, baby son.

"_Oh God, oh Mary...our boy. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Oh God, Mary, I let it get our boy." _

It was his fault. It was all his fault. What had he been _thinking_, bringing the boys into the place where almost half the children had disappeared from? Especially Sammy, who couldn't defend himself even as well as Dean could. He knew what he'd been thinking, though. He'd been so sure his own skills and knowledge would be enough to protect the boys that he'd ignored how very little information he actually had. Guilt, rage, and sick, sick fear was welling up in him with every breath, threatening to choke him.

He had to get out of here. He had to get back on the hunt, before...

He wouldn't think it.

"All right, Mr. Carter, that's it for right now. I realize this is very difficult for you, but we're gonna need you to stick around for a just a little while longer, okay? Detective Ross is going to want to talk to you." The woman smiled--sympathetically--as she rose, gathering her files and the notes she had just taken. John ignored her as she shuffled out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Sammy had been missing for almost three hours now. Three hours, in which John had been forced to play nice with the incompetent rent-a-cops of mall security, and then endure the torturous 'standard procedures' of the less incompetent, but just as clueless San Jose police department. Three hours in which people had made all the appropriate, sympathetic noises, and looked at him and Dean with such gentle, sympathetic faces and proceeded to **prevent him from doing a damn thing to find his child**. _He_ was the only one who could save his son. It was all up to him.

But if he didn't jump through all the procedural hoops, he knew the police would come after him. He'd already been forced to give the name they were staying at the motel under. If he left now, the police might track him down, discover the fake credit card...it would make moving through the city to find his son dangerous. He couldn't risk it...he couldn't risk being arrested, now. Sammy's life was hanging in the balance.

Every wasted moment, though, was like a vise tightening around his chest.

"Dad?" The choked whisper beside him instantly drew him out of the miasma of guilt and self-loathing. Dean's face was ghost-white, freckles standing out in stark contrast. His fists were clenched on the top of the table they were sitting at so tightly that each individual bone of his knuckles pushed against the skin. The boy had been doing an admirable job of holding it together, but John could read the barely-restrained panic in his son's expression, and Dean's eyes were a bright and gleaming wet in his face. "This thing...you said it takes people. It just takes them. It doesn't---it hasn't _hurt_ anyone, right? I mean, some things just like to scare people--like, like that ghost in Detroit that was locking students in the basement at their school. This thing is just scaring people, right?"

There was a thick desperation in Dean's voice, as the child struggled to make himself believe that his little brother wasn't in mortal danger. Even as he spoke, though, John knew his son didn't believe what he was saying--that Dean knew John wouldn't have been so cautious if it was just a mischievous spirit. John wanted so, so much to soothe his son's fears, to tell him that no, no one had been hurt, that he was sure Sammy was fine.

He couldn't lie to Dean like that, though.

His expression must have said as much, for Dean's whole face suddenly seemed to crumple. Despite the boy's efforts, a large, fat tear spilled down his face, followed by another, and another.

"No, Dad! Just...no!" Almost angrily, Dean rubbed one fist across his eyes, scrubbing at the tears. John turned in his chair, taking the boy by the shoulders.

"Listen to me, Dean. I won't lie to you...whatever this thing is--it's dangerous. People have...people have died, son." He wouldn't tell Dean about the children, though...about _how_ they died. He couldn't do that to his boy. Dean's face went impossibly whiter, his eyes widening to the point that they seemed to leap out of his face. John tightened his grip on his son's shoulders. "But we are not going to let it hurt Sammy, all right? I'm going to find him. I _promise_ you, Dean...we're going to get your brother back. I'm going to need you on this, all right? I need you to be strong for me...for Sammy. Can you do that, Dean?"

Dean sniffled miserably, blinking hard and wiping his hands across his face again. The boy took a deep breath, sitting up a little straighter. John cupped the back of his neck with one hand, not needing his son to answer him. From practically the moment Sammy had been born, there had been _nothing_ that Dean wouldn't do for Sammy...and John was eternally grateful for the gravity with which Dean regarded his role as Sammy's big brother.

"Y-yes, sir," Dean said finally.

"All right...now I'm gonna get us out of here as soon as I can, and then I'm going to drop you off at the motel. I'll need you to call Bobby and Pastor Jim and tell them what happened, and get Bobby on as many of his contacts as he can. Then you're going to have to wait for Bobby to call you back with whatever he can find."

"Yes, sir," Dean repeated, a bit more strongly. "What...what are you going to be doing?"

John's face hardened. "I'm going to find where that thing took Sammy."

* * *

The street was as picturesque as a postcard, lined with stately, affluent houses and non-native trees. The houses were older, many of them dating back to the Victorian era, and even the newer ones had been constructed in older styles, a far cry from the adobe and stucco that dominated so much of this area of the country. Nearly every front porch and yard was bedecked with twinkling Christmas lights; and gorgeous, verdant wreaths with bright red bows adorned nearly every front door. The neighborhood was well outside city limits, away from the bustle and closeness and crime. It was the sort of place that just exuded friendliness and warmth...the kind of place where people could still let their children ride their bicycles up and down the sidewalk without fear, where neighbors actually talked to and looked out for each other. It was the kind of place where no one believed anything bad could happen.

In short, it was the perfect hiding place.

How horrified the passive, serene people that inhabited this street would be when they learned what had been going on underneath their very noses.

A nondescript blue sedan drove smoothly up the street, the same as it had countless times before, pulling into the driveway of one of the genuine Victorian two-stories at the very end of the block. The house was as festively decorated as the rest of the street: sparkling white lights hung in the windows and the eaves, wound around the pillars supporting the roof of the wrap-around porch, and glistened in the branches of two small pine trees flanking the end of the driveway. A wreath hung on the front door, and a large Christmas tree was visible in the large, plate-glass window that faced the street. The house itself was beautiful, well cared for and welcoming, the yard and flowerbeds around the porch lovingly maintained. The owner of the house clearly took pride in its appearance.

A fact that had been _incredibly_ annoying, not to mention inconvenient.

The car rolled to a stop just in front of the garage door, and the driver exited, stepping with smooth grace out of the car. The man stood just under six feet, hair and beard gone snow-white, though he couldn't have been more than sixty. His chest was still broad and strong, a middle just starting to go to paunch. His calloused hands and deeply tanned face spoke of a lifetime of hard work under the California sun. He was a well-known figure on the street, respected by his neighbors and loved by the neighborhood children for his friendly demeanor, entertaining stories, and generosity with the candy he handed out at Halloween. Nearly every child under the age of ten on the street addressed him as 'Grandpa' and he reveled in the title, having never married and had children or grandchildren of his own. He was regarded as the neighborhood go-to guy for questions on anything mechanical, and was always willing to lend a hand to a neighbor in need.

Though he had retired from his job some ten years ago, it was a common sight throughout the month of December to see his car pulling out of the driveway before sunrise, and not returning until nearly dinner time. The neighbors all smiled, warmed by the thought of their beloved 'neighborhood Grandpa' donating his time to make children's Christmases brighter.

Not one of the inhabitants of the street had noticed that the man's ready smile never reached his eyes anymore.

No one had looked closely enough to see the hardness, the alien cruelty that lurked under every expression now.

And certainly, no one had yet seen the flash of dull, red light that sometimes eclipsed the man's steely blue irises.

Almost a hundred years had passed since it had had such a wonderful, perfect cover. The thing that now controlled the man's body like a puppet walked towards the garage door, intent on getting the car safely inside so that it could unload its latest prize.

"Evenin' Rich," a voice rang out from the next yard over, and it turned to see one of the neighbors coming up the sidewalk, a small, black mutt on a leash trotting beside him.

"How's it going, Tom?" it returned easily, twisting its face into a friendly grin. At the sound of its voice, the dog suddenly lunged forward, barking its head off and snapping its small teeth.

"Damn it, Rocky, heel! Heel! Christ, I'm sorry, Rich...I don't know what the hell's gotten into this dog, lately." The man jerked hard on the leash, half dragging the dog further down the sidewalk.

"It's no problem--they stuck me right next to Pet World this year...he must smell all the other animals on me." It resisted the urge to hiss at the yapping beast. It _hated_ dogs with a passion...perceptive little bastards.

"Guess so...hey, I heard on the radio that another kid disappeared down there this afternoon. Just a few hours ago! You hear anything?"

It pulled its borrowed features into a mask of surprise. "You're kidding! No, I hadn't heard anything. How'd that get leaked to the media already?"

"Eh, apparently the kid got snatched right in the food court...buncha people saw the dad making a scene and called the news stations. Damn vultures." The man's voice quieted. "They're saying it was a toddler this time...two or three years old, tops. My God, that poor family. Can you imagine?"

"Hell of a way to spend Christmas," it agreed, injecting just the right note of sadness into its voice. The man nodded, jerking once more on the leash of the still-crazed dog.

"All right, I'd better get this knucklehead inside before he gives himself a stroke. You take care, Rich!"

"You too, Tom...see you around." It watched as the stocky man moved farther down the sidewalk, still half-dragging the dog behind him. Its lips twisted into a sick sneer again. Indeed...that poor, poor family. Turning, it made its way to the garage door of the modest, two-story brick house that had been its base of operations for this round of fun. It quickly raised the door and then got back into the car, driving the vehicle forward into the garage.

Only when it had closed and locked the garage door did it move around to the trunk of the car. Inserting the key, it popped the trunk and was met with a pair of wide, teary, brown eyes.

The child practically _glowed_.

There was a little something in all the others, an extra bit of light that drew it to them like the moth was drawn to the flame. Tiny, flickering sparks in their souls that might have blossomed in other times and other places where such things were known and revered. In this day and age, though, in this world, that light would never be more than the sputtering spark that nonetheless _drew_ it to them.

It wanted to crush those sparks, smother them, snuff out that bit of light that shone out from them.

It reveled in the destruction it caused, the extinguishing of even the little bit of light its victims possessed. It drank in the misery and fear and anguish their deaths caused like ambrosia. Half a dozen times it had been able to break free of its prison and wreak havoc...and it relished every moment.

This, though...this would be the ultimate thrill.

Where the others were mere flickers, this child was an inferno. A fire that would only burn more brightly with time.

This would not be an extinguishing...this would be a **blow** against the light that it so hated. It had known from the moment it had laid eyes on the small family wandering through its favorite hunting ground. This child was special.

The whole family was different--the way the father had moved, the dark knowledge in the older child's eyes. They were hunters--enemies of its kind. It had encountered hunters before...but it sensed that these were different. It had almost left them alone, almost sought other prey...but the child had proven too great a temptation. And when it had been presented with an opportunity, it hadn't been able to resist. It would have fun with this family, before it killed the child.

There were tear tracks streaking the small face, and a bit of blood had trickled down the child's forehead from a gash at his hairline. It had had to hit a bit harder than usual to subdue the struggling armful. Its mouth stretched into an unpleasant grin as it reached down for the tiny body, the grin widening as the child immediately began wriggling and kicking violently, trying to worm his way away from its hand. There was nowhere for the child to go, though, and it merely snatched the small boy around the waist, yanking him out of the trunk and casually dropping him onto the concrete floor of the garage.

The child landed awkwardly on his side, and fresh tears sprang to his eyes, but it was amused to note that the child blinked them back fiercely. The child glared up at it mutinously, and it shook its head, congratulating itself on giving into the instinct to be a little more liberal with the duct tape--one of its favorite modern inventions-- this time. No doubt the child would have been screaming his head off during its conversation with the neighbor.

It chuckled to itself, bending down and pulling the child off of the floor as if he weighed nothing. It tucked the boy under one arm, like nothing more than a sack of potatoes, as it made its way into the house. The child still struggled and kicked, even managing to land a couple of blows with his bound feet, but it would take a great deal more muscle than this small boy possessed to make it feel any sort of pain.

Ignoring the struggling armload, it stepped into the small hallway that separated the garage from the rest of the house. There was nothing in the small space, save for a walnut-stained door that led down to the basement. It swung that door open with a gleeful smile, taking a moment to simply revel in the scents of despair and fear that drifted up, along with the faint odors of blood and other, darker things. The child's thrashing tapered off a bit as his eyes fell on the dark staircase leading down into the basement, and it thought it heard a small whimper work out from behind the strip of tape it had slapped over the child's mouth.

"What's wrong, little one? Afraid of the dark?" it laughed cruelly, and headed down the stairs.

* * *

Standing on the darkness, Rachel and Daniel clinging to fistfuls of her sweater, Maria twisted the metal handle on the faucet of the rusted, dirty sink that was their only source of water. There was a hiss of air in the pipes, and then the stream of water sputtered out. Quickly, Maria cupped her hands under it, letting her palms fill, and then brought the meager mouthful to her lips. She frowned as she drank, a small part of her glad she couldn't see what color the water was. Michael had told her that they all needed to keep drinking, though. Shoving her hands under the water again, she repeated the process, letting Daniel and Rachel drink from her cupped palms until they weren't thirsty anymore.

Maria wished she had something for them to eat. Something was wrong with Daniel...the boy seemed to be getting weaker and weaker, and Maria just knew it was because he was so hungry. He had been down here longer than both Rachel and Maria, and Maria didn't really know how long it had been since Daniel had eaten an actual meal. The half of a peanut butter cracker right before Michael had been taken sure couldn't have counted, even if it _had_ been food. Sighing, Maria turned the water off and took the children's hands, leading them back towards the center of the room. Not that it mattered much where they sat, anymore. There was no light to be had, and it seemed that cold, wet drafts found them no matter where they were in this small room. Still, they kept going back to the tiny area where the pitiful circle of light had shone down...hoping against hope that maybe the light would come back on.

Maria hadn't even been able to make herself pray today. At first, the words had made her feel better, had let her remember Abuela's warm, wrinkled hands over hers, teaching her how to say the Rosary. The words weren't making her feel better, anymore. If God was listening, why hadn't He sent anyone to find them, yet? Why had he let bad things happen to Michael and the others? She hadn't told Rachel and Daniel, yet, but she was starting to think Michael and the other kids were...dead. She didn't think the bad man that had taken them would just let them go...and if he hadn't let them go, then why hadn't he brought them back? It scared her to think that God had let the bad man kill the other kids.

She was even more scared by the thought that she, Rachel, or Daniel might be next.

The three of them sat back down on the cold, concrete floor, Rachel and Daniel immediately leaning in close to her. Daniel slowly put his head down in her lap, and she began running her fingers through his dirty hair, the way her mother sometimes did when she was sick. Like always, thinking of her mother made her throat tight and her eyes sting. What if she never saw her mommy again? Would her mommy even know what had happened to her? She took a deep breath, trying to keep from crying in front of the two little ones. She could cry after Rachel and Daniel fell asleep.

Abruptly, though, keeping from crying was the last thing on her mind.

From somewhere outside the room they were locked in, the heavy clump of footsteps on wood suddenly sounded. Rachel and Daniel sat bolt upright, and a little scream escaped Rachel's throat. Daniel whimpered, and his small arms went around Maria's neck, clutching tightly. The footsteps grew louder as their owner got closer, and Maria wrapped her own arms tightly around the two other children. In the beginning, some of the children had tried to run and hide behind the junk in the room...but the bad man always found them. It did no good to try and hide...and it made him angry.

They sat on the floor, too afraid to move, too afraid to speak. Daniel's whimpers were coming faster, and Rachel was crying softly. Maria, though, was completely frozen.

He was coming for them again.

He was going to take one of them away.

And though the words still didn't make her feel any better, she found herself praying again, whispering words of protection her family had taught her.

"_San Miguel Arcangel, defiendenos en la batalla. Se nuestra proteccion contra la maldad y los enganos del diablo_," she murmured, her hands tightening on Rachel and Daniel. The footsteps were coming closer and closer, finally stopping just outside where she knew the door was. There was a heavy sound of metal scraping against metal. "_Que Dios lo reprenda, es nuestra humilde oracion._" The door swung open, and the three children cried out as light hit their faces for the first time in almost two days. Maria's eyes instantly teared up, and she his her face in Rachel's hair. "_Y puedas, O principe de los Seres Celestiales, por el poder de Dios, echar al Satanas al infierno, asi como a todos los demas espiritus que vagan por el mundo buscando la ruina de las almas,_" she finished brokenly, as she heard the man that had done this to them enter the room.

There was a mean sort of laughter, deep and raspy. "Your god isn't going to help you, little girl. Haven't you figured that out, yet?"

Maria dared to glance up again, squinting against the light streaming in from outside the room. The man stood in the doorway, still, and because of the light behind him, she couldn't make out his face too well. She could see his eyes, though.

Horrible, glowing, red eyes.

The eyes of the Devil. She just knew it.

He was holding something under one arm, a small, thrashing bundle, and Maria's heart sank as she realized it was another child. Casually, the red-eyed man set the child on the floor, kneeling down and holding the kid down with one hand against the small chest. As her eyes adjusted to the light, Maria realized that it was another little boy...smaller even than Daniel, it looked like. The boy's wrists and ankles had been tied with tape, and another wide strip of the silvery stuff was over his mouth. He was wriggling fiercely, bucking and kicking with his little legs even as the devil-man knelt over him. Was he crazy?!

The man seemed to find the little boy's struggles funny, though, for he just chuckled darkly, the sound grating against Maria's ears.

"Feisty, aren't you? Good. Fight me, boy. I like it when they fight." So saying, the man grabbed hold of the little boy's wrists with his free hand, and began tearing the tape off. He let go as soon as the boy's hands were free of the stuff, and the boy did, indeed fight. Maria watched in awe as the little boy scratched at the man's arms, beat at his chest with his small fists, muffled, angry shouts escaping from behind the tape across his mouth. The man laughed again, taking the abuse as though it didn't matter.

Quickly, and despite the little boy's fighting, he stripped the boy of a blue backpack and then his red jacket, tossing both over his shoulder and back out into the room behind him. Then he tore the tape off of the boy's ankles and jerked the child up to stand with his back pressed to the man's chest, one of the man's arms tight around his throat. The man leaned down close, so that his mouth was just even with the little boy's ear. He grinned nastily at the three children watching the scene, and Rachel and Daniel instantly went back to hiding their faces in the front of Maria's sweater.

"See them?" the man said softly, ignoring the way the boy was still thrashing against him. "Ask them. No one's coming for you. No one will find you. And I'm going to have such _fun_ with you, boy. So much fun." With that, the man finally tore the strip of tape off the little boy's mouth, and Maria couldn't help wincing, remembering how much it had hurt when he'd done the same to her.

The boy, though, surprised her.

Instead of crying out, he twisted his head sharply and sank his teeth into the man's arm.

The man reeled back a little, but he looked more surprised than anything else. It certainly didn't look as though the bite hurt him. He bared his teeth in an ugly sneer and suddenly let go of the boy, shoving him forward, hard.

The boy lost his grip on the man's arm and went sprawling, landing on his hands and knees in front of Maria, Rachel, and Daniel. And Maria was shocked again when the boy immediately scrambled to his feet and whipped around to face the devil-man.

"You better let us go!" the boy screamed. "Or my Daddy's gonna kick your _ass_!" The boy's small body was shaking, his hands balled up into fists at his sides.

The devil-man was silent for a moment. Then he threw back his head and laughed, deep and loud. The laughter went on and on, until Maria could feel Rachel and Daniel shaking in her arms, frightened even more by the sound. Finally, the devil-man stopped, but his face twisted into an ugly, ugly smile.

"Your _Daddy's _going to have to find me, first." With that, he stepped back out of the room and slammed the door, plunging the room into blackness.

And Maria listened as the new little boy finally burst into tears.

* * *

Again for the curious, Maria's murmurings are the prayer for protection from St. Michael, one of the warrior archangels (really, this could have been written specifically for the Winchesters.

Saint Michael, Archangel, defend us in battle.  
Be our protection against the wickedness  
and snares of the Devil.  
May God rebuke him, we humbly pray;  
And do thou, O Prince of the Heavenly Host,  
by the power of God, thrust into hell Satan and all the other evil spirits who prowl about the world  
seeking the ruin of souls. Amen.

Yes, I am a recovering Catholic. Yes, I learned such prayers when I was Maria's age. The Spanish is with help of a translation website, though, so please excuse any grammatical errors.


	4. Chapter 4

Hello all,

Ah, yay, alerts are working again! Huzzah! Many, many thanks to those of you who have reviewed. I appreciate all your words.

Huh...well, I'm glad Maria has been so well received...and I'm glad everyone is pulling for her to make it through this ordeal. Sad to say, there is more death on the horizon. I mean, we all know Sammy gets out of this alive, obviously, so there's got to be dramatic tension somewhere. Hmmmm...I suppose I might be persuaded to let at least Maria be reunited with her family. Then again, I could be cruel and go for the emotional impact of her dying. Decisions, decisions...what do y'all think?

Disclaimer: I am in no way associated with the rightful owners of Supernatural or any trademarks thereof. Please don't sue me, as that would be terrible publicity, and really all you'd get would be a pile of bills and my cats.

* * *

Detective Ross, the lead detective on the missing children's case, turned out to be a tall, stocky man with a thatch of reddish hair going gray at the temples and disappearing on top. John took in the sharpness of his pale blue eyes, the easy way he carried his bulk, and immediately pegged him as ex-military. There were dark circles under the detective's eyes, and a tightness at the corners of his mouth and eyes that spoke of many long nights seen through with caffeine and determination rather than sleep. His blue suit and tie were presentable, but slightly rumpled, and the tie seemed hastily done up. Dedicated, then, throwing everything he had into this case. As much as John could admire that, it had the potential to complicate things for him. Silently, John grit his teeth.

"Mr. Carter? I'm Detective Ross...Gary Ross. My team and I will be handling Sammy's case." Ross's smile was politely professional, his handshake firm. Offering more than just his rank, and calling Sammy by name, proving he'd already read the particulars of John's report...under different circumstances, John might have spared the energy to be impressed by the man's smooth operation. As it was, he merely offered a terse nod, and shook Detective Ross's hand shortly.

"John. This is my son, Dean." Ross flicked his gaze to Dean, sitting stone-faced and silent beside John, his hands neatly folded on the tabletop in front of an unopened can of orange soda and an equally unopened bag of peanut M & M's some officer or another had provided.

"Hello, Dean. I know you must be pretty scared right now, but I promise we're going to do everything we can to find your brother, okay?"

Dean refused to acknowledge the other man, his gaze boring steadily into the side of the soda can, as if it held the answers to the secrets of the universe. John's jaw clenched further and he laid one hand on his son's shoulder, squeezing the tense muscles gently.

"_Play the game, John...just play the game._" He couldn't afford to rouse anyone's suspicions. He couldn't. The credit card he'd used to pay for their room was fresh enough that he wasn't worried about tripping any fraud alerts, and since he'd been sure this hunt would take several days, he'd taken special care with his fake ID and credentials. They were safe against a deeper check than usual...but neither the card nor the ID's would hold up under the kind of scrutiny a police investigation would bring to bear. And while he had worked around police interference before and would no doubt do so again...the stakes had never been so high.

He couldn't do anything that would jeopardize his chances of finding Sammy.

That included sitting here and playing the clueless, grief stricken parent for as long as the police required...even if every _tick_ of the industrial-issue clock hanging on the small room's olive-toned wall was echoing like a gunshot in John's ears. He had to do this. He had to. He would be of no help to Sammy if he was cooling his heels in a holding cell.

Logical as such thoughts were, though, they did nothing to quell the desire to simply stand up, grab Dean, and start tearing this city apart until he found his baby.

Detective Ross was flipping through one of several moderately thick files in his hands and John's practiced eye caught a glimpse of a photograph of one of the missing children...one of the first bodies that had been discovered. The case file, then. John tilted his head slightly, his quick mind already trying to come up with ways he could lay hands on it. He'd been planning to interview the detectives already working the case the next day, as an independent federal investigator, but he'd used a different ID to set up the appointment...that plan certainly wasn't going to work _now_.

"Detective Ross," he said finally, and there was nothing playacted about the rough weariness in his voice. "We've been here almost three hours--I...I'll do anything you need if it'll help find Sammy, but--"

"No, no, I understand, Mr. Carter. It's getting late, and I know this has been difficult for both of you...you want to get Dean back home and taken care of, right?" Ross interrupted smoothly, setting the folders down on the table across from them, open to the top page.

John lowered his gaze slightly, so that it appeared as though he was staring at the tabletop. In reality, his eyes were riveted on the folders. If he could get a hold of what the police already knew, he might be able to come up with a starting point, a pattern..._something_ that would lead him to Sammy.

"I'll get you out of here as soon as possible, but I just wanted to ask you a few more questions," Ross continued. John forced himself to nod, looking up into the other man's face again. Ross's eyes darted to Dean. "Dean, how about you wait outside for a minute while I talk to your Dad, all right? I could get Officer Kelley to show you a real police car...I'll bet she'd even let you work the lights if you asked nicely. How does that sound?"

For the first time, Dean looked up into the detective's face, before focusing on John. And just like that, a plan resolved itself in John's head.

"Would that be okay, _skipper_?" John asked softly. Dean's eyes narrowed slightly, but his expression remained carefully neutral. John tilted his head slightly, arching one eyebrow, and Dean swallowed roughly, before biting down on his lower lip.

"Dad, I wanna stay with you," he said finally, injecting just the right amount of waver into his voice.

John was quite familiar with the expression currently gracing his older child's face, the slightly trembling voice. Dean had busted them out on many an unsuspecting person at gas stations all across the country...usually in an effort to get some sympathetic Good Samaritan to buy Sammy a candy bar or some ice cream. John even encouraged Dean to use it on occasions when their meager funds and supply of coupons couldn't quite be stretched far enough to meet their needs in the grocery lines, though it was always a last resort. Hence the code name John would never utter under normal circumstances. Means and ends and all that. But now the little maneuver would serve a better purpose than any it ever had before.

Detective Ross proved no more immune to Dean's burgeoning charm than any of the others he tried it on had.

"It's all right, son. How about you wait here and your Dad and I'll talk right outside the door...you can see him through the window in the door. How's that sound?"

Dean appeared to think about it for a moment, before nodding in seeming misery. Detective Ross smiled reassuringly at the boy before jerking his head towards the door. "Mr. Carter, if you'd join me in the hall? I promise, this will only take a few minutes." Seeing his chance, John leaned in and breathed a set of instructions into his son's ear under pretense of dropping a comforting, fatherly kiss on the boy's temple.

"I'll be right outside, okay?" he murmured for further effect, before rising to precede the detective into the noisy hallway of the police station.

Ross closed the door behind them and leaned against it, angling his body so that John could see Dean over the man's shoulder. "Mr. Carter, I'll be very honest. I don't know how much you know about the details of this case, being from out of town--"

"I know enough," John interrupted, and damned if he didn't have to swallow a bit to get the words out, even as most of his attention was focused on Dean. "Hard to miss in the papers, you know?"

"I suppose so. Look, Mr. Carter, I assure you, we're working around the clock to find this bastard...we'll do everything possible to bring your son back to you."

"Detective Ross, I joined the Marines the day I turned eighteen...did two tours in 'Nam. Now I'm not blind and you don't have to--" Just over Ross's shoulder, John saw Dean cautiously rise from the hard, plastic chair he'd been sitting in and walk around to the other side of the table.

Where Detective Ross had left the case file lying wide open on the tabletop.

"To sugarcoat anything," John finished, with barely a stutter, though his heart began racing in his chest. This would be tricky. "If you had anything solid to go on, you wouldn't have seven dead children in the city morgue." John controlled his voice through sheer force of will. Sammy would _not_ be one of those children. He was bringing his baby boy home. He _would_ save his son.

In the room, Dean grabbed the topmost file.

And John thought his heart might burst from the sheer pride welling up inside of him.

In front of him, Detective Ross seemed to deflate a little. The weariness in his posture and expression became even more pronounced, and John allowed himself a momentary flare of sympathy for the man. John had a feeling that Ross was a good cop, truly and genuinely dedicated to his job. These deaths had to be weighing heavily on him. None of that mattered, though, because John was the only one who could end this nightmare before any more children were killed...and his son, all of seven years old, was working on getting him a very important piece of the puzzle.

"All right, Mr. Carter...all right. No sugarcoating. I won't lie to you, there's very little to go on. I can't discuss the details with you...but we've exhausted almost every possible lead. That's why I wanted to talk to you personally. Anything you can tell us...no matter how insignificant it might seem to you...it might help us find Sammy."

Dean held up the file, catching John's eye with a questioning look. Casually, John raised one hand to his temple, making a quick gesture that could easily be mistaken for him scratching at his hairline. Dean nodded seriously and quickly lifted his navy blue sweatshirt to stuff the folder into the front of his jeans. The boy smoothed his shirt down again, puffing the fabric out a little to hide the outline of the stack of papers.

All right...now how to cover up the theft of the file? If they could find a copy machine somewhere, John could get what he needed under pretense of taking Dean to the bathroom or something. John knew better than most that in a station this big, finding another plain brown folder and sneaking it back onto Detective Ross's desk would be easier than it had any right to be. And even if the file was discovered missing, it wasn't like they'd be looking at a seven-year-old as a suspect. Ross was tired and frazzled enough that he might even chalk it up to his own fatigue.

"I really can't think of anything else to tell you. If I could...if it would help find my boy--" John made a show of taking in a deep, calming breath, visibly steeling himself. As he expected, Ross clapped a fraternal hand on his shoulder, one soldier to another.

And more importantly, kept his back to the room where Dean was looking around intently.

Silently, John willed his son to simply sit back down at the table. As it was, John was going to have to play things very fast to keep Ross from noticing that the file was gone before John and Dean had left the station. If Ross turned around and caught Dean messing about the room, it might arouse suspicion. Dean, though, was oblivious to John's silent urging, instead reaching across the table to grab the yellow packet of M & M's.

"We're doing everything we can," Ross assured again, and John forced himself to nod, even as he covertly watched his son tip the packet of candy into his mouth. Chewing furiously, Dean reached for the can of soda next, popping the top and chugging what looked like half the can all in one go.

"I know you are," John muttered distractedly. "But really...everything I saw was in my statement. I just...I turned my back for a few seconds. That's all." This time, John truly didn't have to fake the choked sound of his voice. Seconds. Mere seconds, and his child had been stolen from him. That was all it had taken.

Ross nodded sympathetically.

In the room, Dean scuttled back around to the chair he'd been sitting in and pulled it out. Then, the boy rushed back around to the other side of the table a final time, and carefully swept the stack of folders onto the floor. What the _hell_? Dean positioned himself by the corner of the table, bent low over the pile of scattered papers at his feet and...

"Dean!" John burst out before he could stop himself. Ross whirled around even as John shoved past him, throwing open the door to the small waiting room.

The sounds of retching filled the space, along with the chokingly sour smell of vomit as Dean heaved...directly onto the papers. John couldn't help but wrinkle his nose at the impressive puddle of half-digested pizza sprinkled with brightly colored chocolate bits swiftly spreading over the papers. Dean braced his hands on his knees as he shuddered a few more times, and John automatically placed his hand on the back of his son's neck, rubbing soothing circles on the skin. Conveniently, the action also blocked Ross from the sight of Dean surreptitiously wiping the fingers of one hand, slick with soda-orange saliva, on his jeans.

Finally, Dean straightened, his face flushed and sweaty from the strain. Shakily, he wiped his mouth with the back of one hand, gasping for breath. Immediately, his eyes flew to Detective Ross, and even John was surprised at the speed with which Dean whipped up some truly impressive tears.

"I-I'm sorry!" Dean whimpered convincingly. "I tried to get to the b-bathroom, I r-really did! I'm sorry! Are you gonna arrest me?" Dean wrapped his arms around his middle, looking truly pathetic. It would have taken a heart of stone not to be moved by the picture Dean presented. Ross gingerly knelt down, carefully avoiding the puddle of sick.

"Of course I'm not going to arrest you...it was just an accident, son, I know that," the stocky man said hurriedly. Dean sniffled, rubbing his nose with the sleeve of his sweatshirt and squeezing out a few more tears before leaning tiredly against John.

"I'm sorry," Dean mumbled again.

"_Little thick, there,_" John thought to himself, nonetheless smirking inwardly.

His son was a damn genius.

"I think your boy's had enough, Mr. Carter. Why don't you take him home..er..back to your motel. We have the number for your room?"

John nodded shortly, reaching down to scoop Dean up, resting the boy's weight against his hip. Dean wrapped his arms around John's neck and laid his head on his father's shoulder, playing the part for all he was worth. The minute shivers he could feel running through his son's frame, though, and the few more hot tears he felt against his neck told John that it was not all entirely an act.

"I gave all our information to one of the officers. I'm sorry about your files...he must have knocked them over trying to run for the door," John offered, silently running his hand up and down Dean's back. Ross waved a dismissive hand, rising to stand at the door.

"They were copies...I have the originals in my office. I'll just get someone in here to clean up the mess. Please, don't worry about it. Just take care of your boy, all right? We'll call you as soon as we have anything."

John nodded shortly, readjusting his grip on Dean's solid weight. "Thank you," he said sincerely.

Ross waved him off, opening the door again. Some of the sickening smell of vomit dissipated as fresh air circulated in from the hallway. "I promise you, we'll do everything in our power to get Sammy home for Christmas," Ross said seriously. John pressed his lips into a thin line, but nodded again, shouldering his way past the detective and out into the hallway.

He could feel the outline of the police file digging into his side, even through the layers of his and Dean's clothing as he strode down the hall, heading for the parking lot where he'd left the Impala. Thanks to Dean's stunt, they might not even realize the file was gone at all.

Sammy had been gone for over four hours. Four hours in which the thing that had taken him could have done God knew what to him. Unbidden, the facts of the case he had already gathered rose in his mind. The names and faces of the other missing children paraded in a grim line in front of his mind's eye. Ten children gone. Eleven, now, with Sammy. Seven of them dead.

He tried to tell himself that so far, the children had all been killed in the order in which they were taken. As horrible as it sounded, there were three other children 'scheduled' to die before the thing got to Sammy.

It was cold comfort at best, though.

And John had long ago learned not to count on Luck or Fate to be kind to the Winchesters.

The thing had a four hour head start on him. Whatever trail might have been at the mall was long since gone cold. He would have to find a different starting place...hopefully in the police file.

His quick, sure steps carried him to the Impala in no time flat, even carrying Dean, who seemed in as little hurry to let go of John as John was to set him down. Finally, though, he was forced to set his son down in order to dig the keys out of his pocket and open the passenger door.

"Dad?" Dean's soft, hesitant voice halted his motions as he inserted the key into the Impala's door. He looked down at his son, who was leaning against the car, his gaze fastened on the pathetic bundle of their Christmas tree, still tied to the roof. The boy's throat was working convulsively, and his eyes were red-rimmed and glassy again. Still, Dean struggled to hold himself in check, to be strong as his father had requested.

Without thinking about it, John dropped to one knee in front of his boy, ignoring the cold that immediately seeped in through his jeans from the icy concrete of the asphalt. He took Dean by the shoulders, staring intently into the child's eyes. "We're gonna get him back, all right, dude?" He reached down and patted the squarish outline of the pilfered file, visible again under Dean's shirt. "You did real good in there, kiddo. That's gonna help me a lot. It's gonna help me find Sammy. I'm gonna find him, Dean."

Shakily, Dean nodded, sniffing his tears back harshly. "I-I know, Dad," he whispered. Then he licked his lips and cleared his throat. "I know," he repeated, more strongly. "So we better get going. You still want me to call Bobby and Pastor Jim?"

"That's my boy," John said softly. "We're heading back to the motel now...let me look at what we've got in the file, and then we'll see who we need to call, okay?"

Dean couldn't quite hide his relief at the news that he wouldn't immediately be left alone in the motel room, and John felt a momentary stab of guilt. He quashed it quickly, though. He couldn't afford to be distracted by anything...not with Sammy's life on the line. It was a race against time, now. Dean would understand.

Rising again, he opened the door to the Impala, allowing Dean to slide into the passenger seat and buckle in before he headed around the front of the car to the driver's side. Slipping into the car, he twisted the key in the ignition, gunning the Impala's powerful engine. His hands tightened on the steering wheel.

Whatever had Sammy, he was going to find it.

He was going to find his son.

And he was going to blow the son of a bitch that had taken Sammy straight back to Hell.

* * *

They listened to the footsteps getting farther and farther away, until the only sounds in the room were those of their harsh breathing and the little boy's gulping sobs. The new boy was gasping and crying, and Maria didn't hear him moving from the spot he stood. Finally, she let go of Rachel and Daniel and slowly began to crawl forward.

"Hey...hey, little boy?" she asked tentatively. She heard a louder gasp and the sounds of feet shuffling on the cement. "It's okay, don't be scared. We're not going to hurt you." There was another sound, as if the boy was scrambling farther away from her. Another sob tore its way from the boy's throat, but he sounded as though he was trying to stop his cries. "It's okay," she repeated, though she knew it was a complete lie. She figured it was okay to lie if it made the little ones feel better. She reached out blindly and felt her hand connect with the boy's shoulder. He flinched violently, and she instantly drew her hand back. "My name's Maria. Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

There was another sniffle. "M-my head hurts," the boy admitted quietly, his voice choked. "I think I got a owie."

"I'm really sorry. Are you hurt anywhere else?"

"Want my Daddy. Want Dean!" The boy broke into more crying, his voice high and cracking. Maria sat back on her heels and licked her lips. She tried to remember how Michael had calmed the little kids down when they were crying. Michael had two little brothers...and always seemed to know what to do to make the little ones feel better.

"Can...can I see...um, feel your owie? Make sure your not bleeding?" Not that there was much she could do if the little boy _was_ bleeding...but she had to do something.

There was another hard sniff, and some of the crying died down a little. "Want Dean," the boy repeated stubbornly. "Dean says not t'talk to s-strangers!"

Maria took a deep breath. "Who's Dean? Is that your brother?" she asked. She heard a little intake of breath.

"How'd y-you know t-that?" the boy said slowly, distrustfully. Maria laughed, a little, though she had to force it.

"'Cause my big sister tells me that all the time. She thinks she knows everything just 'cause she's thirteen."

There was more silence, before the boy hesitatingly shuffled closer. Maria could just make out the darker blob of the boy's shape in front of her.

"Dean's seven," he offered softly. He sniffed again, and his breaths suddenly became muffled, as though he was rubbing his sleeve across his face.

"Hey, I'm seven, too. You should listen to Dean about strangers, though. But I told you my name...so if you tell me yours, we won't be strangers anymore. Those are my friends Rachel and Daniel behind me."

"My name's Sammy Win--uh, Sammy." Maria frowned, but ignored the boy--Sammy's--stutter over his last name.

"Hi, Sammy," she said instead, trying to keep her voice calm and bright, just like Michael had done every time a new kid had been brought down. Sammy, though, didn't seem as scared as the other kids had. His sobs were already quieting. She reached out her hand again, and this time Sammy didn't flinch when it landed on his shoulder. Slowly, she slid her hand down his arm until she could gently take his fingers. "Why don't you come over here with us? If you're thirsty, I can take you to get some water...but it's kinda gross."

Sammy was still a moment, before he turned his hand slightly, grasping her fingers with his own. "'M not thirsty," he mumbled, and though his voice was still thick, Maria could tell that he'd stopped crying. Gently, she began leading him back to where Rachel and Daniel were sitting.

"Okay, you just tell me when you are. I know this is really scary, Sammy, but we're gonna take care of each other, okay?" She tried her best to sound reassuring...just because she had figured out what was going to happen to them didn't mean she had to scare the little ones any more than they already were.

Sammy, though, just squeezed her hand again. "It's okay. My Daddy's gonna find us real soon." Maria's throat felt tight again. She had believed her parents would find her, too.

"Sure he is," she agreed quietly.

"He _is_," Sammy insisted, apparently seeing right through her tone. "Daddy hunts bad things all th' time! He's gonna come, and he's gonna shoot that thing _dead_."

"_I wish_," Maria thought silently, even though it was a sin to wish for someone to be _dead_. She was pretty sure God would forgive her for this one time, though. She sat down next to Daniel and Rachel, who instantly burrowed into her again. She hesitated a moment before pulling Sammy down to sit in front of her.

"Can I see your head a minute? I'll try not to hurt you." Rachel and Daniel were silent beside her, apparently waiting to see what she said and did before talking to Sammy.

"Uh-huh," Sammy murmured, letting go of her hand to grab her wrist. "It hurts right _here_," he said, bringing her hand up to rest on his forehead. There was, indeed, a small lump at the top of his forehead, and he whimpered a little when she brushed her fingers over it. There was scratchy, dry stuff on his forehead, too, and Maria bit her lip as she realized it was probably dried blood.

"I-I think you'll be okay," she said softly, letting her hand drop back into her lap. She wrapped one arm around Rachel's shoulders and the other around Daniel's. Sammy shifted a little closer to her, until his knees were pressed up against hers.

"Dean kisses it better. He says that's for babies...but he does it anyway. But m'not a baby! I'm gonna be this many soon!" Maria felt Sammy's hand move up to right in front of her face, and could just barely make out the shape of four chubby, little fingers.

"No, you're not a baby," she agreed, smiling a little in the darkness...a _real_ smile. "I know I'm not Dean, but you want me to try kissing your owie better?"

There was quiet for a moment, and then Sammy's soft voice sounded. "Uh-huh," the little boy said, and Maria found herself smiling again. Quickly, she leaned forward and pressed her lips lightly against his forehead.

"That better?" she asked, leaning back again.

"A little. Dean does it better."

Maria laughed, and for the first time in days, it wasn't forced. "Of course he does. He's your big brother. Listen, Sammy, it's gonna be okay. We're all gonna take care of each other, and it'll be fine." The lie came more easily to her tongue this time, and Rachel and Daniel squeezed a little closer to her.

"I know," Sammy said, after a moment. "Really...my Daddy's gonna find us. Daddy can find anything."

"Will he take us home?" Rachel whispered suddenly, startling Maria. The younger girl had barely spoken since the devil-man had taken Michael away...and she certainly hadn't sounded so hopeful even when she did speak. Maria tightened her hold on the girl.

"Uh-huh!" Sammy said it so forcefully, Maria felt his whole body jerk. "He'll come, an' he'll save us!"

Maria knew it wasn't true...if no one had found them yet, she didn't think anyone was going to. But Sammy sounded so convinced...so absolutely sure. And he wasn't nearly as scared as the other kids had been.

"You'll see," Sammy said again, faith ringing in his childish voice.

She knew it couldn't be true...but for the first time since Michael had been taken, Maria felt a little bit of hope stir in her again.


	5. Chapter 5

Hey everyone,

Yeah, so, this was going to be up sooner. This was going to be longer. Life has other ideas at the moment, though. Unfortunately, I've injured something in my arms or neck, and the nerves in my hands have decided to stage a protest in the form of very disconcerting sensations that make typing, frankly, f--cking uncomfortable. I can do maybe a paragraph at a time before my hands just give out...and it's really bloody annoying. Got some new drugs that are supposed to reduce the inflammation in the nerves, so we'll see. Keep your fingers crossed for me, eh?

Many thanks to all those who have reviewed. As always, I am very glad that people are enjoying it, and I hope I shan't disappoint. Special thanks must go to Dreema Azaleia Wingblade, who has been kind enough to do the Spanish translation for some upcoming lines for Maria. Thank you, sweetie!

To new readers, please be sure you are checking out 'The Bringer' by Ultimate Raisin on this site, as that is the story from which this plot bunny spung. It's a Wincest in the M section...and is freakin' brilliant.

Speaking of which...darling, we get another chapter, soon, yes? I wanna know what happens! How is Dean gonna evade that nasty Sheriff//pouts//

Disclaimer: I am in no way associated with the rightful owners of Supernatural, and make no claims on any recognizeable trademark thereof. Pleas don't sue me!

* * *

It was not an unusual scene; not for John Winchester. Not anymore.

The only clear horizontal space to be had in the motel room was on the two beds. Every other surface was littered with folders, papers, Styrofoam coffee cups, and a seemingly random array of small arms that nonetheless ensured John had a weapon in reach no matter where he stood in the room. Fresh salt lines had been laid at every entrance point in the room, with an extra thick line ringing the bed farthest from the door. The wall above the counter holding the room's ancient microwave was taken up with a large grid map of Saratoga Avenue and the surrounding six block radius, stuck with colored push pins representing the places where each of the missing children had been taken…and where the bodies had been found. John stood facing the map, hands braced on the scarred and pitted Formica countertop, a white foam cup still half filled with lukewarm coffee at his elbow. No, it not an unusual scene at all.

Except, if John turned around, he would see only one small lump curled under the covers of one of the beds. If he looked, there would be no tousled clump of dark curls resting against Dean's shoulder.

One of the push pins represented his son.

John sighed heavily, reaching up to rub at his eyes. It was nearing three in the morning, and John knew he should leave things be for the night…try to catch a few hours of sleep while he could. Even as the thought occurred to him, he snorted derisively, brushing it aside. Sleep? When visions of his baby son, terrified, crying, or—_God no, please no_—hurt and bleeding were dancing through his head? Not likely.

He grabbed the foam cup and downed the bitter contents in one long pull, the unpleasant taste barely registering with him. He then turned to face the room proper, his eyes automatically straying to the bed on which his older son was huddled, clutching the top of the eye-searing orange bedspread with a white-knuckled grip even in sleep. Dean had finally given into exhaustion only a couple hours before, curling into a small ball of misery on the bed he should have been sharing with his brother.

The boy had spent all night watching John's feverish research with wide, scared eyes, silently scurrying for any book or piece of paper the moment John requested it. Dean had barely spoken since they'd arrived back at the motel room. He sat on his and Sammy's bed in between fetching things, his knees drawn up tightly to his chest, his eyes fixed steadily on Sammy's worn and threadbare stuffed rabbit, propped on the end table by its owner that morning next to one of John's hunting knives so that it could 'watch the room for them' while they were gone.

Silently, John walked over to the boys' bed. Stepping carefully over the salt line, he wearily sank down to sit on the mattress next to his son. Dean stirred slightly when the bed dipped under John's weight, but stilled with a breathy sigh as John laid a gentle hand on his head, running his fingers through Dean's sandy blond hair. John's throat tightened as he took in the lines furrowing his son's brow, the tight set of his mouth, even dead asleep. The sight of Dean without Sammy was just wrong. It was all wrong. The sagging bed on which his older son was curled seemed far too large and empty without his younger trustingly wrapped around Dean. The room was far too quiet and dark without Sammy's bright giggles and chattering voice.

Dean shifted in his sleep, rolling away from John's touch and huddling closer in on himself. John sighed again, reaching up to rake his hands roughly through his hair before pulling the comforter higher up around Dean's shoulders. He then sat back and surveyed the masses of papers scattered about the room. He'd gone through some of the files he...they...had stolen from the police station, but it was mostly general information. It had helped to narrow his search radius down, but not much more than that. He hadn't looked at everything, yet, though. The most important bits, he'd saved until after Dean had fallen asleep--the crime scene photos and Detective Ross's personal notes.

He took one final look at his sleeping son before quietly rising from the bed and shifting over onto his own. Pursing his lips grimly, John reached under one of the too-hard pillows to pull out the final few folders of the police folder, where they had been safely tucked away from Dean's sight. His son didn't need to see this.

Hell, _he_ didn't want to look at this. Silently, he flipped the topmost folder open, his jaw tightening as the coroner's report and photos for the latest victim, a seven-year-old named Michael Warner, were revealed.

There was not much that truly disturbed John Winchester. Whatever softness his years in the military and in Vietnam hadn't managed to destroy, the things he had faced down since Mary's death, certainly had. He had seen things that no person should ever have to see--scenes of horror and mutilation that would have sent others running in the opposite direction, screaming in terror, and never allowed himself to react beyond objective observance. It wasn't that he was unaffected...it was just that he couldn't allow himself the luxury of fully _experiencing_ how the things he saw affected him. He would never be able to do his job, to protect his sons, if it were otherwise.

What he saw in the pictures in his hands wasn't the worst thing he had ever seen, by far...but it still turned his stomach, and raised the hairs on the backs of his hands.

With a strangled groan, he closed his eyes briefly, breathing harshly through his nose as bile threatened to rise in the back of his throat.

Michael Warner had been a beautiful child. His face was adorably cherubic--round little cheeks, a perfect cupid's bow of a mouth. It was not hard to imagine that mouth stretching into a sunshine-bright smile, laughter bubbling easily to his lips. A light dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks--more pronounced than Dean's--gave his face an air of mischief. A riot of light brown curls crowned his head, obviously wild and hard to tame, but not unkempt.

A beautiful little angel--beautiful no more.

Swallowing thickly, John opened his eyes again, staring down at the picture and desperately trying to find the cold, clinical frame of mind that he'd perfected over the years. He tried to search for clues in the photo...signs, symbols, _something_.

And not linger on the image of the little boy lying spread-eagle on the ground in front of a dumpster in a filthy, trash-strewn alley. All alone and so far from the family that loved him.

He looked intently at the expanses of chalk-pale flesh revealed by torn and dirty clothes, searching for sigils or marks carved into the skin.

And tried to ignore the ghastly purple-blue shade of the sweet little mouth, the rust-hued cakes of blood that smeared the chubby cheeks and dribbled down the chin.

He took in the positioning of the body, searching for some hint of a ritual, of a purpose behind the sacrifice.

And struggled not to look too hard at the pools of dried gore where the boy's eyes had been.

He tried to force himself to regard the slash across the pale throat that had nearly severed the boy's head from his body with cool indifference, to look at the pale gleam of bone visible through the wound with clinical detachment.

He tried to look at the picture and see just another body, not a beautiful, sweet child who had been loved and cherished by his family--left like a piece of refuse on the cold, dirty ground.

It wasn't the worst thing he had ever seen...but it somehow was. Because he knew that if he failed to find the thing that was doing this, he was looking at the future of his own child. His sweet, innocent son...their Sammy. It would be Sammy lying on the unforgiving ground, left for strangers to find. It would be Sammy's little body, pale and cold and stiff. It would be Sammy's blood streaking the ground, masking a face that would never smile or laugh or sing ridiculous Christmas songs again. If he failed, his little boy would spend his last moments on Earth terrified and alone, far away from him and Dean. He could see it so clearly, what awaited his boy.

John gasped, his breath hitching in his chest, and flung the file down as if the papers and pictures had burned him. He raked his hands back through his hair yet again, feeling the beads of cold sweat that had popped out on his brow.

No.

No, he wasn't going to think like this. Sammy would be safe. Sammy would be back with them, safe and sound. He would save his son--any other outcome was simply unacceptable. His son would not share Michael Warner's fate...John would not allow it.

It would not be Sammy. _Never_ Sammy. Not while John had breath left in his body.

Damn it. There had to be some pattern, some way of putting it all together. He just had to find it...and to do that, John knew he had to get a goddamn grip on himself. As much as his heart was tearing itself in two, as much as sheer, primal terror, the likes of which he hadn't felt since that night in Sammy's nursery, was threatening to overwhelm him, he couldn't give into it. He couldn't afford to let his emotions cloud his thinking. Difficult as it was, John knew that it would be the soldier who could save Sammy--not the distraught father. He had to set his fear for his child aside, had to treat this like just another job.

Resolutely, John gathered the photographs and papers again, forcing himself to stare critically at the images of Michael's corpse. Unfortunately, the pictures proved to be no more helpful the second time around. There was absolutely nothing about the body to suggest anything other than that the boy had been violently murdered by some kind of psychopath. John ground his teeth in frustration, flipping to the copy of the coroner's report on the next page.

Here, Detective Ross had scrawled a few personal notes, most of which suggested the man was every bit as stonewalled as John was. The man had highlighted the cause of death--the throat wound, no surprise--and John could see small, ink-filled indentations where the detective had ground his pen into the paper. The sections detailing the other wounds on the body had been circled as well, multiple dark lines surrounding the bits that spoke dispassionately about the child's tongue and eyes being cut out...according the the coroner, the bleeding was consistent with the mutilation being done pre-mortem. John swallowed heavily, feeling yet another bolt of admiration and sympathy for the detective.

The rest of the report yielded nothing of interest, the pictures of the other children's corpses as unhelpful as those of Michael Warner's had been. the coroner's reports were almost carbon copies of each other. Cause of death: the slashed throat; pre-mortem mutilations of the eyes and tongues; no other visible physical injuries, other than very early stages of malnutrition. Wherever the children were being held, they were being given water, but no food. John struggled to ignore the icy feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. There had to be _something_ for him to go on, some hint of what sort of creature he was dealing with, here. There had to be.

All right...he still had the appointments with the families of two of the victims in--he glanced down at his wristwatch, grimacing--a little over five hours. Hopefully they could tell him something that the police reports missed. In the meantime...

John took a deep breath, scrubbing one hand over his face as he set the folder aside yet again. He then reached over to the small nightstand, hesitating slightly to let his fingers brush over the stained, threadbare fabric of one of Sammy's few stuffed toys, where it was sitting propped up next to the phone. Abruptly, though, he shook his head and snatched the handset of the telephone up. Silently, he dialed a long-ago memorized number, his gaze fixed steadily on the small form of his sleeping son. Dean tossed a little, one hand releasing its stranglehold on the edge of the comforter to flail around towards the side of the bed where Sammy usually slept. The boy whimpered softly when his questing fingers met only cold fabric, and John leaned forward, reaching across the space separating the beds to run his hand over Dean's hair again.

"It's all right, kiddo. It's all right; I'll find him. I promise," John whispered softly. The line on the phone connected, and he listened to the tinny ringing. As he expected, the person he was calling picked up on only the second ring, despite the late hour.

"_We're closed!_" a gruff voice barked over the line, and John closed his eyes tightly, reaching up with his free hand to massage at his temple.

"It's me," he replied wearily.

"_Winchester? The hell you callin' this late for?"_ John's lips quirked into something that might have been a smile under different circumstances. Bobby Singer's voice was still harsh and annoyed, but John heard the immediate concern underneath the tone. The older hunter, introduced to him by Pastor Jim only last year, had proven to be an invaluable resource and a steady friend. Dean and Sammy adored the man--and his dogs--and though John knew Singer would rather have died than actually say the words out loud, the other man had proven no more immune to John Winchester's sons' many charms than anyone else in Pastor Jim's little network.

"Bobby, I need everything you can get on the first case here in San Jose...the bunch that died in 1810. I'd do it myself, but I don't have time to go digging through the libraries here." John didn't waste time on pleasantries, getting straight to the point. There was silence on the slightly crackling line for a moment, before Bobby's voice sounded again, this time the concern far more evident.

"_What happened?_" John swallowed convulsively, again. He should have known the other man would have picked up on something in his tone. Not waiting for an answer, Bobby forged ahead...hitting the nail on the head. "_Shit, John, did something happen to the boys?_"

John clenched his teeth again, the icy lump in his gut growing by leaps and bounds. "I screwed up, Bobby...I screwed up so bad," John admitted softly, his voice choking against his will. "It...whatever it is, it got Sammy. It took Sammy."

"**_What_**?!_ What do you mean, it got Sammy? How did--no, never mind. It ain't important. What all do you need?_"

"1810 was the farthest back I could trace this thing...but I think it goes back even farther. There's no pattern I can find, no starting point. The police reports have got nothing, the coroner's got nothing...there's nothing to even _start_ tracing. I've got interviews tomorrow with some of the other parents, but I need more information. I need the original city plans, any newspapers from the other cases, witness reports...anything you can get. I--God, Bobby, I can't even get a bead on what this thing _is_...there's nothing...no evidence, no signs, _nothing_!" John's voice rose a bit more than he had intended on the last word, and Dean stirred again on the bed, another soft whimper working its way from his throat. John held his breath a moment, but as before, Dean settled again quickly, no doubt exhausted by the events of the day.

"_John...all right, you'll figure it out. You will."_ Bobby's voice tripped a little over the words, unused to doling out reassurance...especially to the likes of John Winchester. "_I'm on it. You want me to come down there? I can be there by this time tomorrow night. Is Dean okay?"_

John let out a harsh bark of laughter. No...no, Dean was most certainly not okay. Neither of them were okay, and neither of them would _be_ okay until Sammy was back, safe with them. "He's holding together for now. See what you can find out, and then we'll decide if you need to come down here." As much as John would have liked to have Bobby's backup, he knew that what the older hunter did at his cabin was important...John Winchester wasn't the only hunter that relied on Bobby's research skills and incredible knowledge of the occult.

There was a frustrated huff of air on the other end of the line. "_You just say the word,_" Bobby said seriously, and something like relief welled up in John's chest.

"I know. Just get me that information. You got a pen handy?" An affirmative grunt answered him, and John rattled off the contact information for the motel they were staying at.

"_I'll overnight whatever I can find. John...we'll find him, okay? The answer's there, we just ain't looked in the right place, yet."_ John breathed out softly, more gratified than he would ever admit by the 'we'. Whatever relief he felt, though, was quickly eclipsed.

"I'll call you again tomorrow, Bobby. Thanks." Without waiting for a reply, John hung up the phone, and dropped his head to cradle it in his hands.

The answer may have been out there...but Christmas Eve was only a week away. If the thing followed the same pattern it had with all the other cases...the other three children that had vanished before Sammy would be killed and dumped within the next few days. And if no other children were taken, then according to the timeline---

His little boy's life would end on December 24th.

* * *

As she had for the past several days, Maria woke up slowly, silently praying that today would be the day that this would all turn out to be a horrible dream...that when she opened her eyes, she would find herself in her own room, in her own bed, wrapped up in her fluffy pink bedspread. Even before she opened her eyes, though, she knew that once again, it was not a dream. The cement floor of their prison was hard and cold underneath her body, and every bit of exposed skin was freezing cold from where she was forced to use her jacket as a sort of pillow. As usual, Rachel and Daniel were curled around her like two little puppies, their body heat erasing at least some of the cold...but there was a new, unfamiliar weight pressed against her legs.

"M-maria?" A soft, high-pitched voice spoke quietly in the darkness, and Maria remembered. The devil-man had brought a new little boy down to this horrible place...maybe the bravest little boy that Maria had ever met. He didn't sound so brave now, though.

"Yeah, uh, Sammy?" she replied, stumbling a moment before she remembered the little boy's name.

"I gots to potty. Real bad." Sammy sounded as though he was about to start crying again, and she felt him sit up. Instantly, the cold hit her legs and she couldn't help but wish she had been wearing something besides her Christmas dress and a thin pair of leggings the day her mommy had taken her shopping. She had other things to worry about than being cold, though.

"It's okay...I'll show you where you can go potty. Uh...do you have to go number one or number two?" There was a small drain hole in one corner of the room that they had used as a toilet...but there was just nowhere for the solid stuff to go. Michael had found an old tarp that they used to cover up the 'poop pile' and keep the worst of the smell away, but Maria hated to touch the tarp at all.

"I gots to pee!" Sammy whispered urgently, no trace of tears in his voice now that it seemed he would not be forced to wet himself, and Maria sent a silent thank you up for small favors. As gently as she could, she worked herself out from under Rachel and Daniel, laying them both back down on her wadded up jacket. She then felt her way to Sammy and grabbed his small hand in her own.

"C'mon, I'll take you," she said, but when she moved to stand up, Sammy refused to budge.

"I can't go with you!" The little boy said, sounding shocked and more than a little put out.

"Why not?"

"'Cause! You're a..._girl_." Sammy said it as though it should have been the most obvious thing in the world why he couldn't let Maria take him to the bathroom, and Maria couldn't help but giggle a little at his outraged voice.

"Maybe, but I'm the one who knows where the potty is. You don't want to have an accident, do you?"

"I don't have acc-i-dents no more!" Sammy protested instantly. Rachel shifted a little at the noise. "I'm a big boy! Daddy says so." Sammy let go of her hand, and despite the darkness, it wasn't hard to imagine him planting his little fists firmly on his hips. Maria sighed softly, yet another smile tugging at her lips. She couldn't believe this kid...tossed into a dark room by a monster who looked like a man, left alone with perfect strangers, and the thing he was most worried about was having to go to the potty with a _girl_.

"I promise I won't look, okay?" There was a heavy, suspicious silence from the little boy, and then she heard him shift around again.

"I guess. Only if you promise." The small, hot hand found its way into hers again, and this time when she stood up, Sammy came with her.

She led him over to the corner quickly, not wanting to leave Rachel and Daniel alone too long in case they woke up, and after a few more indignant protests about just peeing in a hole, Sammy had done his business with a minimum of mess. She then took him to the sink and got him and herself a drink, silently grateful when the little boy didn't put up a fuss about the funny way the water tasted. Truth be told, she was kind of surprised that Sammy wasn't putting up much of a fuss at all...Daniel had cried for hours when he was first brought down here, and she was pretty sure Sammy was even younger than the other boy.

As they made their way back to where Rachel and Daniel were still sleeping, Sammy's hand curled trustingly in hers, she couldn't help but question the boy's calm...she hadn't felt that since she had first been brought here, whatever else she tried to make the other kids believe. "Aren't you scared?" she whispered finally, as they settled back down beside the two other children. Sammy let go of her hand, and she half expected him to try and crawl up into her lap the way Rachel and Daniel would have. Instead, he merely scooted close to her side, resting his head against her shoulder.

"Kinda," he said softly, just as she began to think he wasn't going to answer her. "I was real a-scared when the bad thing grabbed me. An' I don't remember goin' to sleep, but I did 'cause I woke up in his car...an' that was real scary. But Dean says I don't ever have to be a-scared for very long. 'Cause he's always gonna be there to 'tect me. An' Daddy, too! They're gonna find us, real soon. So we don't have ta be a-scared, no more." There was not a trace of doubt in Sammy's young voice, no hint of the fear that Maria had felt eating at her insides ever since Michael had disappeared. She simply sat there for a few moments, her heart thudding in her chest.

"Your...your brother sounds really great," she whispered after a moment. She felt Sammy nod enthusiastically against her shoulder.

"Dean's the bestest big brother ever!" the boy chirped, and Maria had to smile again, remembering her own big sister, and how Carla had always made her feel just as safe and protected, even when she was being a big brat. "And my Daddy hunts bad things all the time...I'm not s'posed to tell about that, though, so you can't say anything, okay?"

Maria took a deep breath, and then reached up with one arm, gently squeezing Sammy closer to her side. "I promise," she whispered. She didn't know exactly what Sammy was talking about...and she didn't know if Sammy's father would really be able to find them and save them. But somehow, listening to this tiny boy talk so confidently, she couldn't help but wonder if maybe God hadn't been listening to her prayers all along, after all.

She opened her mouth to ask him more about his brother and father, wanting to hear more of his chattering voice, so much brighter than anything that had been in this dark prison. Before she could speak, though, a new sound reached her ears...one that sent her heart rate skyrocketing and chilled her to the bone all over again. Beside her, Sammy stiffened, and she automatically drew the boy closer even as her other hand reached around to shake Rachel and Daniel awake.

Outside the door, heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs.


	6. Chapter 6

Hey all,

Gonna have to be short today, 'cause I'm getting ready to head to a teacher conference tomorrow and should really be in bed. Many thanks to those who have reviewed and for the well wishes in those reviews. I'm doing much better now, and the problem with my hands has been pretty much resolved (and without the aid of surgery or invasive testing procedures, yay!). Hope people are still enjoying!

Disclaimer: I am in no way associated with the rightful owners of Supernatural and all trademarks thereof. No money has exchanged hands and I respectfully ask that nobody sue me. It's all in good fun, after all.

* * *

_"I'm scared."_

_"Don't be." _

_They were whispering, their voices barely carrying beyond the bed on which they sat. Dean was scrunched up against the headboard, a flashlight trained on an old, wrinkled comic book he had dug out from the depths of his bag. He was trying to act like he wasn't worried, flipping through the pages of the book with a bored expression on his face._

_He wasn't fooling the child curled at his side._

_Sammy could tell by the way his brother held himself, all stiff and tight, and by the way he was biting his lip. Dean was scared, too. It was dark out, and almost Sammy's bedtime, and Daddy wouldn't be back until breakfast time the next morning. He'd promised to take them to the pancake house across the street for breakfast tomorrow if they were good while he was gone, but Sammy was starting to think that he'd be happy not to have pancakes if it meant Daddy would walk through the door and pick him up high over his head, the way he sometimes did._

_The room was too dark, even with Dean's flashlight. Dean said they couldn't have the lights on or watch TV because nobody could know they were by themselves this late at night. Dean had let him put the 'donot asturb' sign on the door, and he'd helped Dean check the salt lines around the doors and windows. Dean had even let him lay the line around their bed all by himself...mostly. All that was fine, but it hadn't helped one bit once the sun had gone down. Sammy couldn't help it...he was scared. Daddy left him and Dean alone a lot, but Sammy couldn't remember him ever doing it after dark._

_He wanted his daddy. _

_Even with Dean right beside him, the room didn't feel right without Daddy in the bed next to them. _

_"Dean?" Sammy whispered again. _

_"What?" Dean sounded a little annoyed, but Sammy knew Dean wasn't angry with _him.

_"Is Daddy comin' back?"_

_"Of course he's coming back. Don't be stupid."_

_"But he's been goned a really long time." _

_"_Goned_ isn't a word. And anyway, it's only been a few hours. He'll be back tomorrow morning." Dean huffed lightly to himself, and Sammy bit his lip, watching his big brother with wide eyes. Finally, Sammy couldn't take it anymore._

_"Dean?" he said yet again, his voice lowering still further. Immediately, Dean threw the comic book down onto the bedspread._

_"_What_?!" the older boy said angrily. Sammy shrank away a little, and Dean took a deep breath, reaching up to rub his eyes with one hand. "What?" he said again, and this time his voice was much softer. Sammy bit his lip and plucked at a stray thread on the bedspread. _

_"What if somethin' happens to him?" He heard Dean suck in another breath, real hard, and Sammy suddenly didn't want to look his brother in the eyes. He pulled harder at the thread, and hugged his stuffed rabbit closer to him. _

_"Don't say that, okay? Nothing bad is gonna happen to Dad. He's too tough." _

_"But what if it does?" _

_"Sammy, _nothing_ is gonna happen to Dad. I promise! You probably don't remember, 'cause you were really little, but last year he was gone for five whole days! Mr. Bobby had to come and get us and take us to Pastor Jim." _

_Dean very carefully did not mention that that time, their father was only supposed to have been gone for a few hours. He didn't like to think about how scared he had been as he dialed Mr. Bobby's number, listening to Sammy wailing on the bed behind him, angry and squalling because he was hungry. The groceries Dad had left them with had run out the morning before, and Dean hadn't even been able to give his brother a bottle of juice. They had stayed with Pastor Jim for another three days before Mr. Bobby had finally brought their dad to the older man's farm. Dean had never found out just what had happened, but Pastor Jim and John Winchester had talked for almost two solid hours before they had left in the Impala...listening at the door, Dean had only been able to hear something about 'mouthing off to the police' and 'posting' something. Dean wasn't sure what it meant, but he'd heard his dad promise to pay Pastor Jim back for something, and when they had come out of the study, their dad had been pale and shamefaced. _

_"I do so a-member," Sammy said...even though he really didn't. "I'm a big boy...Daddy says." Dean laughed out loud at that, his warm, happy laugh that Sammy loved to hear, even though he was pretty sure Dean was laughing at _him_. He didn't care, though, because it made Dean's whole face look like it was shining. _

_"Okay, fine, you're a big boy...but you weren't back then. You still had a blankie and diapers. Big, stinky diapers. All the time. Mr. Bobby said you were the stinkiest kid ever, and he made you ride in the back of his truck 'cause he didn't want you up front with us."_

_"He did not! You're tellin' stories! S'not nice to lie!" Sammy pouted at his brother, wrinkling his forehead, and Dean finally shook his head. _

_"All right, all right, you win. Mr. Bobby didn't call you stinky." _

_"Is Daddy gonna be goned for that long again?" Sammy went back to his original question, and Dean privately wondered when it had stopped being easy to distract his little brother with silly stories or games. Every day, it seemed, Sammy was getting sharper. _

_"I told you...'goned' isn't a word. It's 'gone.' And no way Dad'll be gone that long again. He'll be back by the time you wake up. So the sooner you go to sleep, the sooner you'll see him."_

_Sammy shot him a _look_. Dean regretfully realized that he wasn't going to get to finish his comic book tonight. Sammy licked his lips nervously, and hugged his stuffed rabbit to his chest even more tightly. All the teasing went out of Dean like water draining out of a broken glass. Sammy looked _really_ frightened about something...and nothing was allowed to make his baby brother that scared. _

_"What if somethin' comes before Daddy gets back?" The words were said so softly that Dean had to strain to hear them, and Sammy wasn't looking at him, instead focusing on the rabbit's black button eyes. Dean sighed heavily._

_"Is that what this is about? You think something's gonna happen to _us_?" Dean asked, deliberately making his voice low and gentle. Hesitantly, Sammy's dark head bobbed up and down in a jerky nod. Dean huffed to himself before scooting a little closer to the smaller boy, wrapping one arm around his brother's shoulders. Immediately Sammy burrowed into his side, as close as he could possibly get, and laid his face against the side of Dean's neck. _

_"Sammy, nothin's gonna happen to us, okay? Dad made sure there's all sorts of wards and stuff all over the room...and we put the salt lines out just a little while ago."_

_"But what if one of the bad things comes in anyways?" Sammy sounded close to tears, and Dean worried his lower lip between his teeth. Something _tighthurtwrong_ welled up in his chest at the thought of any 'bad thing' getting anywhere close to his baby brother, and he silently swore all over again that as long as he was around, _nothing_ was allowed to hurt his Sammy. Out loud, though, he just cleared his throat and pulled the little boy tighter against him. _

_"You don't worry, okay? 'Cause even if that happened...and it _won't_...but even if something did get in, I'm here. I always take care of you, don't I?" _

_Earnestly, Sammy nodded, winding one small, chubby arm around Dean's neck. "You take the bestest care of me," Sammy said very seriously. _

_"And I always will." _

_Still, though, when Sammy finally raised his head from Dean's neck, there was something else lurking in his eyes. Dean was well-versed enough in his little brother's various moods and expressions that it was obvious the conversation was not yet over. He wasn't disappointed when scant seconds later, Sammy opened his mouth again. _

_"But what if somethin' bad comes when you're not around?"_

_Dean's whole body went cold, even though Sammy was cuddled close to him and the blankets were drawn up to their waists. "That's not gonna happen!" he protested instantly, his voice coming out louder than he'd intended. "That'll never happen, you hear me?" Instinctively, he drew his arm more tightly across Sammy's shoulders, hugging the boy close, as though something had appeared that instant to take his brother right out of his arms. _

_Sammy, though, refused to be distracted from his train of thought. "What if it does?" he asked in a small voice. Dean struggled to calm the sudden racing of his heart, taking a deep breath in the way Dad had taught him. _

_Despite the fact that Sammy had only recently turned three years old, he'd already shown a disturbingly bulldog-like tenacity when it came to questions. When he asked something, he expected an answer, and his ability to sense when someone was trying to give him the run-around had already had his father reaching for the bottle of aspirin more times than could be counted. Dean knew that once the other boy got something in his head, it stayed there until Sammy was satisfied. So, even though the mere thought of not being there if something happened to his brother made Dean's stomach turn, he nonetheless took a deep breath and spoke truthfully._

_"I promise you, I'm always gonna be around as long as I can help it, okay Sammy? But...but if for some reason I'm not...and Dad's not...you don't have to be scared. 'Cause if you needed me, I'd find you."_

_"Even if I was way, way far away?" _

_Dean swallowed hard and nodded._

_"Even if you had to fight a big, scary monster to find me?" _

_"Even if I had to fight a big, scary monster." Dean licked his lips, suddenly wishing with all his might that his father was back...or that they could turn the TV on...anything so that he didn't have to keep talking about this with his brother. Sammy, though, finally seemed satisfied. The little boy wiggled for a moment, before stretching up to sloppily kiss Dean's cheek._

_"I love you, Dean. I love you the biggest," Sammy said solemnly. "And Gus loves you, too." He held up the worn stuffed rabbit that he rarely went anywhere without. _

_Dean snorted, secretly touched, though he'd never admit it. "Yeah, well, tell Gus he's not my type. Now, will you please go to sleep? It's almost past your bedtime." _

_Sammy giggled softly, but obediently flopped back down against the pillows, pulling the blankets up tight against his neck. Dean held himself still as Sammy shifted around, getting comfortable. Finally, the little boy settled on his side facing Dean, yawning widely, Gus the Rabbit tucked close under his chin. "G'night Dean," Sammy muttered sleepily, weariness setting in with the typical on/off suddeness of the very young. _

_Dean waited for the other boy's breathing to deepen and even out, before gently laying one hand against soft, dark curls. "I'll always be there when you need me. Always. I promise." _

_Sammy pretended not to hear the softly whispered words, instead simply rolling closer to his brother's warmth, and smiling gently as he fell asleep._

* * *

The footsteps were coming closer.

They _clump, clump, clumped _their way down the stairs that he remembered the bad thing carrying him down, getting louder and louder by the second. The other little boy and girl jumped at Maria as soon as she woke them, wrapping themselves around her the way he held onto Dean when he was really, really scared. Maria reached out with one hand to him, and even though Daddy always told him that he was a Winchester and Winchesters weren't afraid of anything, he grabbed onto her hand as tight as he could.

Dean would call him a baby for needing a _girl_ to hold his hand...but it was dark, and he was scared, and Maria said she was going to take care of him. They were going to take care of each other, like Dean took care of him, and he took care of Dean. Sammy didn't know how they were going to do anything, but it made him feel just a little better to stand beside the older girl and hold tight to her hand.

"It'll be okay, guys, it'll be okay," Maria whispered.

The footsteps stopped, right outside what had to be the door to the room they were in.

Sammy felt the other two kids pushing themselves back behind Maria, holding onto her waist. They were both crying, and Sammy could tell from the sound of Maria's voice that she was about to start, as well. Sammy wanted to start crying, too. He didn't know what was on the other side of the door...but he knew it was one of the bad things his daddy hunted. He knew it was fast and strong enough to grab him up and take him away from Daddy and Dean before he could even scream. He knew it was a bad thing that had hurt him and scared him.

He wanted to cry, but he was trying hard not to. Dean wouldn't want him to cry, or be scared. Just thinking about his big brother made him feel better, braver. Dean wouldn't be scared! Dean wouldn't cry! So he wouldn't, either. He would be a big, brave boy until Daddy and Dean found him. Sammy took a deep breath and straightened up, throwing his shoulders back the way his big brother always did when he was about to do something he really didn't want to do. He could be brave, the way he knew Dean would want him to be. He could be brave until his brother found him, the way he promised he always would.

Silently, Sammy squeezed Maria's hand as the door swung open.

* * *

Detective Gary Ross was pushing the edge of complete exhaustion. He hadn't actually seen the inside of his house for the past three days, instead catching quick naps on the breakroom couch and showering in the locker room. He'd been mainlining the crappy breakroom coffee and living off delivered Chinese takeout and the sandwiches his wife had brought to the station with a change of clothes, yesterday. He was pretty sure he was about to hit the point of uselessness as far as the investigation went. Already, his supervisor had 'suggested' he take a couple days off and get some rest. No doubt it would be an order, soon.

Ross knew it would be the best thing, but he couldn't make himself leave, just yet. It would _have_ to be an order...he wouldn't put his investigation on hold for anything else.

This case was driving him to his limits, in more ways than one. Finding Michael Warner's body had been yet another blow in a series that had left him raw in ways he hadn't felt since his rookie days. This was the kind of case that every law enforcement officer prayed he or she would never have to deal with. Bad enough that it involved children...but to have to see the kind of brutality that had been visited upon such innocent victims. It turned his stomach. Seven times, he'd failed in the worst way possible. Seven deaths, seven families shattered in a way that they would never truly heal from.

No, he would not be going home until he was absolutely forced to.

Grimacing, he reached up to massage his temple as he flipped through the case file for perhaps the thousandth time. The details never changed, the leads never miraculously became more helpful, but he couldn't stop hoping that somehow they would. There was so much about this case that didn't make any sense. How could eleven children just _vanish_? And that was exactly what seemed to have happened. There were no witnesses, no physical evidence...and the security footage they had been able to find--well, Ross just couldn't find any rational explanation for the tapes. The children literally seemed to have vanished into thin air.

He sighed heavily, throwing the folder back down onto his desk with a snarl of disgust. Seven children were dead in his city, and he and his team were no closer to finding answers than they had been the day the first victim disappeared. He cracked his neck from side to side for a moment, before reaching down to scoop the latest file off the pile that had taken up permanent residence on his desk. The Carter family.

_That _had been a kick in the teeth. At only three years old, Samuel Carter was the youngest victim so far. Ross's heart had gone out to the father and the brother...it was obvious that they were a very tight knit family. The older brother, especially, had been devastated. Ross couldn't help but shake his head at the memory of the boy's pale face, the way his hands had been shaking as he wretched, actually sick from worry. For them to be merely passing through town, far from any family that could provide comfort and support, had to make this doubly hard for them. It wasn't fair.

John Carter's statement read almost exactly the same as those of all the other parents. A bit more concise and detailed--Ross was willing to bet his pension that the man had a military background--but ultimately as unhelpful as the others. Shaking his head, Ross reached for the folder of photos of the various scenes where the children's bodies had been found, frowning slightly as his questing hand came up empty. Strange...he was sure he had placed the crime scene folder on the lefthand corner of his desk.

Wait...no, he'd had it on him when he'd gone to interview John Carter. He'd been looking at the pictures of Michael Warner's body when he'd been called down to speak with Carter, along with some copies of the witness statements. The photo file had been the only file in the stack he'd taken into the conference room with him that hadn't been a copy, in fact. Crap, it had been in the stack the Carter boy had lost his lunch on. Great. Just great. With a sigh, Ross levered himself up out of his chair and crossed the few feet that separated him from the door of his small office.

He opened the door and poked his head out into the chaos that was the floor of the San Jose Major Crimes division. "Sanchez!" he barked, and several feet away, a dark haired man in a suit and tie no less rumpled that Ross's own raised his head from some report or another on his desk.

"Yeah?" the younger man called back.

"You supervised the cleanup of those files that kid ruined yesterday, right?"

A disgusted grimace curled the other man's lips. "Uh-huh. Thanks for that, by the way."

Ross couldn't help the small smile that quirked his lips. "Delegation, rookie. That's what I get paid the big bucks for. Were you able to salvage any of the crime scene photos from the missing kids case?" The files were backed up, of course, but Ross really didn't want to go hunting for them in the station's massive storage rooms.

At his desk, Sanchez raised one eyebrow in surprise. "Sorry, sir, there weren't any photos in the files. Bunch of witness statements, but that was it."

Ross's brow furrowed. "What are you talking about? You sure?"

"I went through all the papers myself--and again, thanks for that. No crime scene reports." That couldn't be right. Ross's eyes narrowed as Sanchez shrugged. "Are you sure you had them in _that_ stack?" Sanchez continued, and now he was looking confused as well. Ross opened his mouth to snap back that of _course_ he was sure...but something held his tongue.

"No...no, I guess I must have put it somewhere else," he said, instead. Without another word, he closed his office door and returned to his desk.

He _knew_ he'd had that file with him when he went to interview John Carter. He was tired, but he wasn't so tired that he would start being careless with his case files. No, the file had been on the table when he had taken Carter out into the hallway. But that had to mean...

Ross's eyes narrowed still further.

Slowly, he reached over and snatched the handset of his desk phone off the hook, raising it to his ear. He dialed an extenstion quickly, his face never once losing its thoughtful look.

"Angela?" he asked quietly as the extension was picked up on the other end. "It's Gary...listen, I need some information."

* * *

It paused outside of the door that lead to the room it held its victims in, just savoring the smell of fear, the sounds of whimpering cries that reached it. Too long, it had been denied this, and it knew that its time was drawing to a close yet again. Who knew when it would be able to break free from its prison again? Best to make this time count, to _truly_ enjoy itself. It licked its lips, practically salivating at the thought of the misery it would cause with its final victims.

Especially the prize it had taken the day before.

It chuckled darkly as it finally undid the latch on the door, allowing it to swing open.

The children were huddled in much the same place as they had been the day before, two of the smaller ones clinging to the dark-haired girl who was forever spouting off words of faith as though they could save her. The children had their faces buried in the front of her torn and dirty green dress, their shoulders shaking with sobs. The girl herself was holding to them tightly, one arm wrapped around them both. She had pushed her face into the smaller girl's blonde curls, and by her harsh breathing, it could tell that she, too, was struggling not to cry.

And then, there was the smallest boy.

It met the child's dark, defiant gaze and something inside of it positively shivered in anticipation. Oh yes, the child was special. To its preternatural gaze, the boy still _glowed_...power practically pulsing within, around, and through him. Incredible. Intoxicating. It smiled, stepping further into the room. Its borrowed fingers itched to touch, to rend and tear, and hurt. To destroy the light and the power that swirled around in the small basement room. It knew such would be the ultimate thrill, the ultimate triumph.

The other children flinched and trembled at the sound of its feet on the concrete floor, but not the boy. He merely continued to stare, the only sign of his fear the way that he clutched that the older girl's hand, his knuckles going white with the strength of his grip. Brave child. It always enjoyed the brave ones...breaking them was so much sweeter. It stalked forward stopping only when it loomed over the huddled children, a twisted smile lighting its mouth as the three clinging to each other suddenly sank to their knees with terrified screams. The older girl tried to draw the small boy closer to them, but the child refused to move.

The boy stared up at it, his face pale and his eyes wide...and minute shivers had started to wrack his small frame. His gaze, though, was still steady. The child was not backing down. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Slowly, so, so slowly, it reached down tracing one hand along the side of the child's face--and _then_ the boy showed his fear, flinching away from the touch with a small whimper. The dark eyes grew even wider, and glassy with the start of tears, but the boy seemed to will them away, refusing to let them fall. Its smile widened, and it made a quick, jerking motion.

The boy screamed in pain and surprise, falling down to the ground as he threw his small body backwards.

Blunt, human nails weren't nearly as effective as claws, but four lines of scarlet appeared on the child's soft, plump cheek. It chuckled again as it raised bloody fingers to its mouth, its tongue flicking out to lap at the scant drops. Its eyes nearly rolled back into its head at the taste.

_Power_.

So much power and potential. The child's blood _danced_ on its tongue, sparking with a richness that called to something deeper than deep and darker than dark within it. With a mad cackle, it reached down again, snatching the child up by his arms and bringing him level with its eyes. The other, smaller children screamed and cowered, and the older girl finally seemed to find some of the spirit she normally showed. The girl shoved the other two behind her, and then lunged, beating at its legs with her fists and screaming at it to let the boy go.

Casually, it kicked her aside, ignoring the screams of the other children as they scrambled for their fallen friend.

The small boy in its hands was gasping, now, the tears he had fought so gallantly against spilling down his cheeks. It grinned nastily, bringing its face in close to inhale the scent of the child's blood, scraping its teeth against the open scratches, desperate for another taste. The delightful, electric flavor exploded on its tongue again, the swirls and eddies of power becoming even clearer to its senses. For a moment, it seemed that everything within and around the child was laid bare to it.

And suddenly, it laughed.

"Marked," it chortled, throwing its head back in malicious mirth. The child shivered in its grasp, kicking feebly, but it ignored the boy's pathetic struggles. "Marked," it whispered again. "Marked by demons and destiny...all light and shadow, aren't you little one? Marked by so many."

It could taste the truth in the boy's blood, sense all that was centered on this small being.

The deadly, dangerous claim of one of its own kind...one of the ancient, powerful demons. Was its 'brother' even aware that the claim on this child had been challenged?

The pure, glowing light of the child's innate abilities, dormant still, but so strong. The child would be a _warrior _for the light if those gifts were allowed to develop freely.

And beneath it all, something else. Something beyond the machinations of a demon, or the glow of goodness and light. Something that had almost passed out of all human understanding.

This child was marked by the power of the Old Ones. Marked by a power it never in a thousand lifetimes would have dreamed of being in the presence of.

"Bringer," it breathed, almost reverently.

To tamper with the forces twined in this child's existence was to invite ruin. Of that it was certain. Its smile stretched still further, tinged with madness. Such, such fun. There was a flurry of movement, the sounds of flesh striking flesh, a scream louder and longer than any other so far.

And when it was over, and the door slammed shut again, there were only three children in the small prison.


End file.
